


Scars where all my sins bled

by Little_Lottie (tfwatson), tfwatson



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Light D/s Dynamics, Lycans are werewolves, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Praise Kink, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rimming, Slow Burn, Top Steve Rogers, Underworld movie AU, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Violence, and later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-03-17 21:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 97,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13667412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfwatson/pseuds/Little_Lottie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfwatson/pseuds/tfwatson
Summary: CompleteAn Underworld movie AUTwo hundred and six years ago to the day, Bucky became a vampire. Fuelled by vengeance, he has become his coven’s greatest weapon in the immortal war against the lycans.Following an anonymous tip, Bucky saves Steve Rogers for the sake of his coven, and maybe for reasons he refuses to examine too closely. But then Steve is bitten and now they stand on opposite sides of an unending blood feud.There isn't a world for a lycan and a vampire, but somewhere between a subway station and a safe house, a Black Widow bite and the rising tide of lost memories, Bucky finds himself doubting everything he thought he knew - including that age-old rule about never falling in love with a werewolf.





	1. I: Subway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Slaughter_Me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slaughter_Me/gifts).



> This story is complete and I'll be posting a couple of chapters a week until it's all up.
> 
> If you haven't watched the Underworld movies, all you really need to know is that 'lycans' are werewolves. And it might help to know that at the beginning of this story, Steve is pre-serum.
> 
> Thank you Becki for the inspiration and for your unbelievable patience (I've been writing this fic for a year but it feels like an eternity!) Huge thanks to tumblr user stevebuckythyla for the amazing feedback and support! And to everyone that's cheered me on!
> 
> Oh, and hi! You can find me on tumblr (little_lottie) if you want to chat about this fic, these boys, or anything at all really!

**I: Subway**

 

_**18 April 2017 — Budapest, Hungary** _

Since meeting Steve Rogers, Bucky had managed to avoid thinking about words like _destiny_.

Once you started down that road it was just a short, slippery slope to _tragedy_ , which was all a bit much because Bucky couldn't even be sure that Steve genuinely liked him. Bucky really should get to work on being likeable first.

For now though, trouble seemed to cover every situation that linked back to Steve, and Bucky didn't want it to escalate from there.

Trouble was enough. It had been chasing them for days, snapping at their heels and breathing down their necks. Slinking nearer, pressing closer. Unrelenting. But now, as Bucky looked into the iced-over eyes of Alexander Pierce, he got the feeling that trouble had finally caught up with them.

Bucky held the other vampire’s stare, metal grinding on metal, and thought about the apple-sweet taste of Steve’s kiss still on his lips and the last trickle of Steve’s blood rushing in his veins.

There were times when it seemed that this immortal war would gape its mouth wide open and scoop up anything in its path.

All Bucky knew was that he and Steve wouldn’t be in its way when it did.

~

_**Fourteen days earlier** _

_“Barnes, do you copy?”_

Bucky set his jaw and kept his silence, content to ignore the question entirely as he blinked down through the sky.

Scanning the street below, he maintained his position and waited for his mark. A few quick seconds slid him closer into the early hours of the morning, but Bucky had no doubt that his targets would show.

Rumlow, on the other hand, was nowhere near as calm about the quiet passage of time. Bucky could practically hear him seething through the static and into his earpiece.

_“Answer me right the fuck now, Barnes.”_

Bucky bit back the sharp insult that had been sitting on his tongue for the best part of a century. There was a level of defiance even he couldn’t get away with, and besides, he had a job to do.

From where he was crouched on the roof of the crumbling church, the night dropped out from under him and fell into Budapest. It tipped over the ledge, plummeting down like the falcons that now eyed Bucky suspiciously from the eaves.

The scene was like something out of the best gothic horror novels, a setting and premise to rival Shelley and Poe and Walpole. Even down to the crawling unease in the air, like some part of Bucky, stirred crazy over the years, felt the church itself balk at having him step on its stones. He could almost imagine a vibrating resistance under the rubber soles of his boots, a horrified distaste that a creature of hell would have the nerve to look at a house of god, let alone plot murder on top of it. The dislike was mutual. It was only Bucky’s healthy respect for beautiful architecture that stopped him scuffing black marks onto the buttery beige underfoot.

The only things that seemed to be missing from Bucky's gothic novella was a damseling maiden and a night of grave robbing, but he didn't think the tale was any poorer for lack of either.

He finished another circuit of surveillance and immediately tracked back to point one, relying on his enhanced vision to sift through human-shaped shadows three blocks north.

There, at the point where streetlamp-lit darkness hit the city sidewalk, a man was being followed.

Senses sharpening, Bucky shifted his weight forward onto his hand, eyes locked on blond hair bleached white under fluorescent lights. Three and five steps behind, and flanking him, were the two lycan targets Bucky had been waiting for.

He tensed as he assessed them with fierce loathing. New recruits were taught that the hate between vampires and werewolves was an innate, genetic repulsion of two species, but Bucky knew that for the lie it was. It didn’t matter — whole empires could be built on lies and thrive, and regardless of Bucky’s views on nature or nurture, the result was the same: vampires learned to hate lycans quick enough.

Carefully flexing, waking his muscles after hours of being still, Bucky rebalanced on his toes just as the comm crackled again.

 _“I’m only going to repeat this once,”_ Rumlow snarled, the rough barb of his voice even more graveled with distortion _. “I want you back in this mansion within the hour. Do you copy?”_

Bucky gripped the stone under his flesh hand, felt it tremble under the pressure. The targets were moving fast, his window of opportunity closing. _Forty seconds_.

“I’m ready to engage,” Bucky said, breaking his silence but not for Rumlow’s benefit. Slipping a look right, his eyes sifted through the inky blue shadows on the adjacent roof until he caught the reflection of the low-hung moon bouncing off a camera lens.

Unaware that Bucky had company, Rumlow responded with a quick _, “Don’t even think about it,”_ in a voice that had turned hushed and imploring, a silent appeal to Bucky’s rapidly diminishing desire to obey orders from anyone but Pierce. _“Come on.”_

It sounded a bit like _please_ and Bucky felt his lips quirk. As attuned as he was to the pursuit below, he quickly picked up on Rumlow’s point of weakness: he was being overhead, and probably overseen, scrutinized by members of the council, no doubt.

“Insubordination causing you problems?” Bucky mused, already reorienting his focus back to the chase on the street.

Subconsciously, he started a new count, giving Rumlow a generous ten seconds before the man excused himself from the control room and completely lost his shit. In the interest of self-preservation, Bucky removed the comm from his ear and let it hang around his neck. He’d still be able to hear, but it might not burst his eardrum at this distance.

The comm had been Bucky’s one concession to Rumlow’s authority, but he’d purposely picked a dud, hoping that it would fail. So far, he’d been disappointed.

Seven seconds in, Rumlow’s shout made the falcons take flight in a rolling thunder of terrified wing beats. _“For fucks sake, Bucky, I gave you an order!”_

Unflinching, Bucky spotted the blond crossing to the other side of the street, sending what he probably thought was a covert glance over his shoulder. So he knew he was being followed then, which meant he’d likely do something stupid, like confront his lycan pursuers or run. Either would compromise Bucky’s opportunity to intercept.

Hissing out an irritated breath, Bucky shifted his weight further over the building’s edge. He needed to manage Rumlow, and quickly. “I won't be back before dawn, so do yourself a favor and recall the order.”

_“I will **not** —”_

“Recall it, then I won’t have to ignore it,” Bucky interrupted. “And then later you won’t find yourself having been undermined by a subordinate.” Crushed stone tripped against the side of the building as Bucky released his grip on the ledge. He watched rocks tumble, repeating coldly, “Recall it. You know it’ll look better on you if you do.”

Long seconds dragged out, seconds Bucky needed if he was going to successfully ambush those lycans, but for every one that passed, his lips slowly curled until he was smirking into the furious, fizzing static of Rumlow’s radio silence.

When he finally choked back his anger to speak again, Rumlow’s voice was a caustic but resigned snarl. _“Report to me the minute you’re back. The **minute** , Bucky, you hear me?”_

“Fine,” Bucky agreed sharply, wishing they still used flip phones so he’d have something to snap the fuck shut.

He knew he hadn’t won by a long shot. He may have the upper hand for now, but nothing with Rumlow was ever easy.

On the edge of his vision, he saw the falcons being mobbed by crows, and directly below, the blond risked another look over his shoulder, body tight as if he knew what was coming. Or maybe, Bucky thought, he was the kind that was always ready for a fight.

 _Five seconds._ Throwing his earpiece to the ground and ripping its counterpart collar from his throat, Bucky stood in one smooth, carefully balanced movement.

He tipped his head down, spotting his landing three hundred feet below, and dropped through the sky.

~

Two hundred and six years ago to the day, Bucky became a vampire.

Two hundred and six years, and his body still panicked every time he jumped.

It got him thinking that maybe time could never erase the basest of human instincts. The one that told Bucky he wasn't jumping, he was falling, and that his body would prove it to him. But if two centuries and change was good for nothing else, it had taught him to ignore the way his muscles bunched as gravity helped pull him down, the rush of air in his ears during free fall and how it sent his brain screaming in panic.

Just like every other time, Bucky barely registered the impact when his feet hit the concrete. The ground shook under his boots and he ignored that too.

He stood and fell into step almost instantly, eyes trained on the red and white baseball jacket of the lycan whose attempts at blending in were, ironically enough, at the expense of being inconspicuous.

While the street was quieter than might be expected for a university city in the early hours of a Saturday morning, it was a hell of a lot busier than Bucky would have liked. Not least because if the lycans attacked now, the odds were that none of the civilians would survive. And the higher the body count, the harder it was for Bucky to cover his tracks.

Frown all you like, but as unscrupulous as the thought might be, protecting humans wasn’t really Bucky’s specialty.

Hands tucked into the pockets of his dark wool jacket, he carefully kept the distance, making sure he wasn’t noticed. As he walked, he started to calculate the death toll if the lycans chose to raise hell now. The chances of them causing carnage in this day and age were slim, but it had been decades since they’d shown their faces in a densely populated area like this, so it would be foolish to discount anything.

Here in the city centre, the lycans could launch a full-scale assault with maximum human casualties. And yet they ignored all but one.

The wiry lycan — lean but roped with sinewy muscle — was furthest away, but Bucky didn’t miss the extra step he rushed into his stride to keep the blond human in sight. When Bucky tested the theory, reaching the road and launching himself across the hood of an oncoming taxi to see of they'd break away and follow the disturbance, the lycans were so focused on their mark that they didn't look back even when the air was split with the angry screech of tires. Sliding onto his feet, Bucky didn't look back either.

The blond must have sped up because the lycans were pulling away. Bucky matched the pace, forcing a group of students to stumble stop to avoid colliding with him. It sent a waft of human scent across his face, the iron tang of it making his desperate nerves scream as he followed the baseball jacket under the subway arch.

Bucky’s mouth was dry, and it wasn't just adrenalin from the drop. It had been days since he last took the hunger inhibitors all death dealers were given to help them focus during missions. He didn't think he'd ever skipped a dose, but he'd tracked these lycans nonstop, and round the clock surveillance didn’t allow for med pick-ups. He’d been the only one to believe Maria’s source, trusted that the intelligence was sound. If he'd asked for a team, Rumlow would have been on the comm way before it had been too late to intercept him, and Bucky would have been hauled back to the mansion. In the back of his mind was a prevailing sense of gratification, but suppressing the hunger took all his focus until the craving dissipated and he could force out the tension from the base of his spine and the itch from under his knuckles.

Two steps into the subway station, the sickly sweet human smell was drenched in lycan musk and by the time Bucky had followed his marks to the southbound platform, it was so thick and heavy in the confined space that he wouldn't have been surprised if the waiting passengers could smell it.

In one sweep, Bucky located his targets. The wiry one slouched by the junk food kiosk on the far side of the platform, and baseball jacket stood two pillars down from Bucky, five foot and a pregnant woman away from the blond, whose shoulders were up, the line of his back unnaturally taut.

Resting a hand on his glock, Bucky quickly catalogued the lycans’ features and looked for quirks in the way they held themselves that hinted at the weapons they carried. Two targets. Five weapons. Two fifty caliber bullets required to demobilize. These were the things Bucky had been trained to see immediately and had always had the talent to instinctively spot.

They were the things he _should_ have seen first, not the blond’s small hand sweeping his fringe from his eye as he cast a jittery look over his shoulder. Not the cut of the man’s jawline or the way the light’s glare set off the sharp sweep of his cheekbones. And not the rabbiting of his heart, stuttering with a slight arrhythmia, and how it trebled its efforts when his eyes caught Bucky’s.

If Bucky’s heart weren’t so cold, his pulse might have spiked too. As it was, the surprise made him take an involuntary step back.

There was a fractured second in which the man’s eyes slipped past him and Bucky thought he might go unnoticed. Then the gaze backtracked, eyes finding Bucky’s so that he found himself trapped in fearless pale blue. They stood staring at each other, fixed in place, and for one odd, abstract moment, time seemed to skip like a stereo needle locked in a record groove. Bucky’s vision narrowed, the air silenced to a thrum of white noise that clicked and popped as the seconds looped back and replayed.

Bucky counted six long, charged seconds before the man’s lips parted slightly on a sharp inhale, his slow blink hiding his widening pupils for long enough that Bucky could pull the needle free. The rest of the platform rushed back in a sea of noise and color, but nothing was louder or brighter than the galloping _thump, thump_ of the human heartbeat that filled Bucky’s ears.

Taking a slow breath, he took a measured step back, where he knew his features would be lost in shadows. Clint would probably be amused that the movement had him fading into a film-noir style perfume advert — something Bucky will elect not to mention — but, _shit_ , he couldn't remember the last time he let himself get distracted like that.

To Bucky’s relief, the man watched his retreat for a couple more seconds then turned away with a tiny crease between his eyebrows, leaving Bucky with a knot in his stomach and the absolute certainty that there was trouble ahead.

He scowled, tipping his head back with a thud. Self-directed rage lit so fiercely it felt like a punch in the gut. It didn't change the fact that he’d lost a handful of seconds he hadn't been prepared to lose in fiercely intelligent eyes, enviable bone structure and the uncanny sense that he was looking at a man often underestimated.

Gritting his teeth, Bucky made up time, sweeping the platform to map exits and obstacles, noting three members of staff, two of which were security, all of whom would be of no use to him. They were expecting teenage chancers with bats, not centuries old immortals with automatic rifles.

Bucky worked fast, and despite the momentary derailing, he was still steps ahead of the lycans. But as the odds fired around his head, he knew he was at a disadvantage. His best bet was to take the lycans out before they had the chance to change; before they turned animal and grew stronger still.

The air shuddered as a train pushed into the station, circulating a blast of heat across Bucky’s face and around the platform. It was only a matter of seconds before the lycans picked his scent out of the crowd. He had just enough time to sharply shake his head, and his weakness out with it, before putting an unaffected camouflage in its place so that when the lycan with the baseball jacket finally noticed him, it saw exactly what Bucky wanted it to: steady hands curled around twin uzis and hollow eyes.

The lycan was quick to react, widening its stance. A broad, powerful, snarling mass of muscle and vitriol. Bucky didn't know how he’d fare against it on an unarmed battlefield, but he wasn’t prepared to find out.

He got a couple of shots in before all hell broke loose. Pitchy screams rollercoastered around the platform, and Bucky lost sight of the red and white jacket amongst the panicked crowd that ran left and right but mostly in the wrong direction.

On Bucky’s left, the second lycan opened fire. The clatter of bullets scattered the concrete, pinging against Bucky’s metal arm as he returned fire. The lycan’s body crumpled as he emptied a clip into its torso, but it ran on, forcing Bucky to brace as it hit him with the force of a freight train. He used its momentum to flip it and throw it scrabbling and snarling to the ground, losing one of his guns to slashing claws, transitioning teeth snapping at his ear. As the silver penetrated its heart, Bucky sensed the crosshairs of another gun at his head.

He darted behind a pillar just as the lycan’s shots poured into the air. Bullets caught the concrete, a man’s ankle and a woman’s liver, her flailing leg kicking Bucky’s uzi out of reach and forcing him onto his glock unless he wanted to run through a rain of ammo to retrieve it. Aiming around the pillar, Bucky found that the lycan had capitalized on the fear freezing the pregnant woman to the spot. Now she was a human shield, dangling mid-air with a huge hand wrapped around her throat.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to the side, annoyed that the blond was still there. He’d known he was being followed, and now he knew that his pursuers were, at the very least, murderers. Any second, cold panic was sure to fire flight hormones down his spine. Bucky glared at him — _any second_ — but he still wasn’t moving and his eyes were hard as he took in the choking sounds ripping through the woman’s throat like he was ready to do something courageous that would get them both killed.

“Get out of here,” Bucky growled, urging him to bolt with a jerk of his head toward the staff exit.

There was nothing Bucky could do in the 0.6 seconds it took for the man to launch himself at the lycan and crash his shoulder into its stomach. Bucky could see the jar of the man’s upper body as he impacted against solid muscle, the grit of pain in the bite of his teeth, and Bucky found himself staring in shock. He'd seen humans try and fight a supernatural before, but rarely and never without a weapon. Taken off guard, the wolf actually folded in against the impact and stumbled back half a step.

Seeming to view the lycan’s stumble as weakness instead of the only thing that had come between him and a caved in chest, the man didn’t relent. If he walked away with only a couple of broken ribs, he’d be lucky. And Bucky would be amazed.

The lycan dropped the woman in surprise, but before it could redistribute its weight and rebalance itself, Bucky had taken the shot, bullet stomping into the wolf’s heart just as it tipped its head back and howled. It was very unlikely any of its kind were near enough to hear it — the lycans were scattered, their numbers few and far between — and Bucky squeezed another couple of rounds into its head before it could call again, or before its clawing hand reached the blond. The blond who still wasn't running, but was instead scrambling to pull the woman aside, speaking assurances as she hauled in huge mouthfuls of air. Bucky couldn't hear the exact words, just the comforting cadence and low encouragement, until that too was drowned out under the increasingly loud ratchet of a semi-automatic rifle.

A long, deep howl resonated from somewhere down the tracks. Bucky reloaded, cursing when he realized that it was way too soon for a werewolf to have travelled across the city, or even part way across it. They had to have been hiding out in the tunnels. Bucky braced himself as the sound of rapid fire hit his ears again.

As it happened, it wasn't the rifle but the silent approach behind him that would need Bucky’s attention first. Too close for a shot, Bucky spun, pulling a solid silver knife from between the buckles of his combat vest and burying it between the wolf’s second and third ribs, fighting with a swift, graceful economy of movement. He despatched the two lycans coming quick on either side with his hands; two palms twisting on either side of one's head, then snapping down on the top vertebrae of the other.

There was only a second to re-read the terrain, to count the heat signatures of the company that remained — four humans and three lycans — before mentally deducting the bullets and knives he'd already used to determine what he had left. His uzis were either empty or lost, but he had his glock and he dispatched two more lycans that way. Both targets had occupied him for only a handful of seconds, but it had been long enough for the newcomer, the rifled lycan, to reach the station and locate its target. It was towering over the back of the blond, who — despite everything going on around him — was kneeling on the concrete, hands threading together to start CPR on a dying woman. As Bucky stormed forward, the lycan grabbed the man by the shoulder. Instead of ripping out his throat as Bucky would expect, it yanked his head back to scan his face.

It didn't make sense. But nor did the small army of a dying race, or that the human hadn't run for his life a dozen deaths ago.

Bucky would process that later, so for now he was left with only a fleeting thought for the idiot werewolf that had left itself unarmed and open to attack. Suppressing a scornful smirk, he aimed at the side of its spine, as far away from the two civilians as possible but where the force of the bullet would throw it away from them.

The man jumped up as soon as he was released, horrified blue eyes stuttering over Bucky’s gun then up to meet his gaze. Bucky didn't know what the man was seeing, a savior or a killer, but he was having to fight really fucking hard to keep his immortal-blue eyes at bay in an effort to make sure it was the former. If the human was of value to the lycans, then he was of even greater value to Bucky. The last thing he needed was to scare the guy off.

A few feet away, the lycan was getting back up. None of the lycans had had the time to transform so far, but this one was starting to show signs, eyes blackening like tar as it closed the distance. It reached for the blond but Bucky got there first, pulling the man a tripping step back before pushing him sideways with just enough care to moderate his strength as metal connected with flesh.

Then the lycan was on Bucky, forcing him to twist sideways to escape the backwards trajectory. When the lycan growled, skidded and turned into the clout of Bucky’s hit, its collarbone gave way under Bucky’s palm. He pushed, forcing enough distance between himself and the animal to empty a clip into it.

Bucky didn't pause before hauling the man to his feet. There were two more lycans on their way and no time for manners or delicacies. He pulled him into his side, shouldering his weight, feeling heat and smelling city smoke and the sweet scent of blood.

“What the hell?” the guy demanded sharply.

Taken aback, it took Bucky a moment to realize he was talking about the shove to his side and not the way Bucky had just saved his life. _The shove_ , which, incidentally, was another time Bucky had saved his life.

“Tell you what,” Bucky bit out, throwing his arm across the guy's chest to punch two bullets into the nearest lycan's heart, “we can talk about it later. Now that there is a later because you're not fucking dead.”

There was no answer to that. At least there shouldn't have been, but the guy was frowning as though insulted and opening his mouth on a retort and Bucky wanted to laugh. He actually wanted to laugh. He was a death dealer, about to terminate yet another lycan, so he didn't. But it was there, like popping candy in his chest. Light like joy, if he could remember enough about joy to recognize it.

It would have been nice to have had the time to think about it, but Bucky could already hear the tweet of early bird song, signaling that daylight was creeping over Budapest. Then the dawn chorus’ sweet warning was joined by the building wail of a police siren, and there was one final lycan snarling down their necks.

Bucky grabbed the man's elbow and spun him around, making sure the lycan was the last thing he saw before Bucky whipped his pistol across the back of his head. Then he shot the scapegoat dead.

He’d dragged the man’s unconscious body out into the dark before the cop cars had even pulled up outside.

 


	2. II: Subject 0

**II: Subject 0**

 

 _“A circle looks at a square and sees a badly made circle.”_ ― Jeff VanderMeer, Authority

~

The mansion was settling in for the day. Icy in its quietness, sulky and forlorn like a lonely, only child.

The house swung between two distinct, polarized moods. Day, whispering and elusive, and night, flamboyant and ominous. Both were cloaked with a heavy layer of pomp and ceremony. A tradition of what Clint liked to call, 'bullshit'.

With the sun already swinging onto its upward arc, burning through the cloud as it went, the coven was shutting down, its inhabitants vulnerable without the cover of darkness. They closeted themselves away behind tinted windows which stained everything a somber gray, and shutters that stripped out the very last of the light. It was only dawn and it was already stifling. Bucky felt like he was breathing in stale air, clogging his lungs with each inhale.

There were only a few of his kin still present as he walked through the mansion. They milled about in hallways, shoes a whisper on wooden floors the color of bitter cocoa, and they all parted to let Bucky through, back-stepping out of range and eying him with a mixture of curiosity, fear and reverence. One, with huge chocolate eyes and a spaniel expression, plastered himself back against the rich paneled walls. The overreaction probably had something to do with Bucky’s pissed expression, but it was more likely a result of his reputation for ruthless efficiency.

Death dealers were formidable, and Bucky was the best of them. That was what they all said anyway. That he was fearless, a cold careerist, a doggedly determined assassin gilded by his immortal line of descent. He'd been the coven’s greatest weapon for so long now, he was used to this reaction, and while he'd never turn on one of his own, it felt good to be reminded that at least he scared someone. The man at the subway hadn’t looked scared of him, but then, the man at the subway hadn’t seen his teeth, his other-worldly eyes, and maybe when he thought about it, Bucky was actually really pleased he hadn’t.

When it came to this house though, this life — the coven and the job he took more seriously than a job — he couldn’t forget that it took years to build a reputation but only minutes to destroy it. And now he needed that reputation more than ever, because the war was far from over. Six centuries since it started, the battles were fought with new technology or old vampires that had survived natural selection to be better weapons than the ones they wielded. The whole business of killing was easier than ever before, but everything else remained the same: hunt down the lycans and kill them off, one by one. Different times, same war.

As Bucky made his way through the corridors on route to the training room, he felt the washed-out watercolor eyes of coven ancestors look down on him from their gilded canvases. He'd always disliked the portraits, and hated their subjects even more. Those watchful eyes with their unrelenting scrutiny felt like they could needle their way into your soul. But honestly, the mansion was full of omens — the trick was to work out which were bad and which were worse. The sudden appearance of Rumlow’s personal assistant was certainly one of the latter, and Bucky’s sour mood took a nosedive as soon as she placed herself directly in his way with a foreboding smirk.

Huge blue eyes, lazy and meddling, regarded Bucky like he was exactly what they'd been waiting for.

Hoping beyond all hope that that wasn't the case, Bucky skirted around and muttered a terse, “Lorraine,” as he walked past.

Hearing, “Brock wants to see you,” brought him to a slow sighing stop a second later. When he turned with a scowl, Lorraine had planted a hand on her hip and was modeling a smug smile. “He’s with the envoys.”

Lorraine was a young vampire who hadn’t yet been granted the freedom to leave the property. Bucky could only just remember being a new recruit, a nervous smile and a fresh, glinting coven cuff around his wrist that fit too tight and too awkward. A sense of belonging to something he didn’t really trust enough to belong to. It might have been nice to have had Lorraine’s sense of arrogance and entitlement in those early days.

She advanced a couple of steps and brushed by him, all self-satisfied like a cat. It was just as well for her that she had lucked her way into a position of relative power, because around here her temperamental disposition and terrible social skills were enough to get her killed.

“You’ve been summoned,” she drawled, voice mocking and full of false grandeur, leaving no doubt in Bucky’s mind that those were the envoy’s exact words.

He blinked slowly to keep his disdain from escaping in an obnoxious eye roll that would only be reported straight back to Rumlow. Not stopping to ask where he should be heading, he turned and pushed through the thick oak door in the direction of the control room. If ambassadors were in the mansion, then that was where they'd be. In any other situation, Bucky would simply find Rumlow by following the wake of whisky glasses and clumsy murders.

Opening the doors to the control room cracked the sound of deep conversation into a shattering silence. In the uncomfortable hush, the click of Lorraine’s heels on the ceramic tile as she followed Bucky into the room was deafening.

Bucky offered the smallest nod he could get away with as he took in four perfectly tailored suits, four slightly surprised faces with four sets of hard, unimpressed eyes, and it was immediately obvious that his arrival was both unwelcome and unexpected.

“You're early,” Rumlow barked, face darkening into a scowl. He muttered a spiteful curse alongside Lorraine’s name as though the words went hand in hand.

Seeing Rumlow squirm uncomfortably, Bucky had never been happier to receive only half a message, but it was the reaction of one of the ambassadors that was the most interesting. Tradition dictated that while envoys from other covens brought with them power and respect, the ultimate responsibilities would remain with the coven leader. Yet it was the ambassador at the head of the table, not Rumlow, that stared Lorraine down with fury.

“You idiot,” he hissed at her. His beaky face, pale with almost translucent eyes, was livid. “Get out.”

Rumlow opened his mouth, closed it again and clenched his jaw in anger.

Bucky, who’d been observing the strange scene with interest, silently watched Lorraine’s swift exit, the _click clack_ of her shoes rapping quicker in her haste. He almost felt sorry for her, but then those four sets of eyes were back on him, impatiently waiting.

“I’ll come back later,” he told Rumlow, planning to exact his escape before his filter failed him, turning his language ugly and letting his voice betray his contempt. With any luck, Rumlow would see that Bucky was doing him a huge fucking favor.

“You’ll wait here,” Rumlow countered, eyes narrowing.

He was looking at Bucky like he wanted to throttle him, which might have been a response to the way the envoy had put him in his place — or more accurately, pushed him out of place — or it might have been the scarred memory of the time Bucky broke his kneecap and Rumlow did nothing more than glare.

Bucky pushed back the urge to shrug and moved further into the room, purposely standing at the corner of the table because it definitely wouldn't hurt to put himself in the same scope as the towering statue of Pierce — just a reminder that Bucky didn't like to follow orders from anyone else.

He waited, subtly assessing the other two envoys. The twitchy, excited-looking one wasn’t immortal. If he was, the dainty tea cup he was clumsily reuniting with a bone china saucer would be sharp edges and dust. Neither was the young-looking prim one that avoided eye contact as though he wanted to go unnoticed. It didn't bother Bucky that they were human. If it was outside his remit of lycans and vampire hunters, he was largely unaffected in both work and feeling. His only concern was reporting back as efficiently as possible, a finely tuned and redacted version of the night’s events, so that he could start to solve the puzzle he'd happily locked himself into — a puzzle that looked an awful lot like a blond human and his apparent, as yet undetermined, value to lycans.

“The lycans I took out last night,” Bucky said aloud, anxious to be done and dismissed as quickly as possible. “They were stalking a human. So excuse me, but I’m not waiting around anywhere. I either debrief now, or I come back later when I’ve found out why.”

It was like the words shot a dart into Rumlow’s spine. Tensing, he cast a fidgeting, concerned glance over the dignitaries.

The air was arctic. Rumlow had put the AC on, probably to flush out the musty smell that clung to the room. The cold filtered into Bucky’s head and chilled the inside of his skull, but it wasn't just the temperature that layered the room with ice. It was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the envoy at the head of the table. His presence in the room was an uneasy prickle down Bucky’s spine.

Seconds passed and the short, gray-haired man did nothing but watch Bucky with eyes so light they were ghostly. “Who are you?”

“Bucky Barnes.”

“Yes,” the ambassador said, slow and sinister, “but who are you _really_?” The excited envoy’s eyes gleamed eagerly. “They call you the Winter Soldier, don't they?”

Bucky deliberately widened his stance a little. Rumlow noticed but the others didn't, and it made Bucky want to show them exactly who they were dealing with. To show off and antagonize. “They can call me whatever the hell they want.”

The responding hum spidered across Bucky’s pale skin. “Because names don't change what we are, do they?” the ambassador said in agreement, even though that hadn't been what Bucky had meant at all.

He didn't have to try very hard to slide a blank expression onto his face. He was so done with the day already that the expression probably hit the tone of hauntingly remote pretty damn well.

Rumlow’s warning glare purposely shifted to the statue over Bucky’s left shoulder. He was under no illusion that Rumlow was almost certainly banking an entire manifesto of his misdeeds for when Pierce was woken, joyfully anticipating his fall from grace.

But Bucky just couldn't help himself. “I’ll come back later,” he repeated, already turning.

Behind him, the head envoy had started to stand, stopping Bucky with a strikingly chilling voice. “No need. We’re done here.”

Either the tone or the look he gave as the three stormed out with a shuffle of papers had Rumlow practically shrinking under his frozen eyes. Interesting. Rumlow would have been far within his rights to admonish the ambassador for his behavior, but he sank back instead.

As the doors slammed, shutting Bucky in with Rumlow and two of his team, Rumlow let out a partially hidden sigh. If he was looking for sympathy, Bucky wasn't going to be the one to give it. Rumlow was an idiot if he let himself be treated like that. If Bucky’s mind weren't filled with the man on the platform, the thought might have jarred because it went against everything he knew about Rumlow’s character to let that sort of defiance go. Till now, Bucky had only ever seen him defend his power and privilege with the fists of a boxer.

Only Bucky was excluded from this, and the reason was clear: Pierce. It also helped that Rumlow had a genuine respect for Bucky. He’d never say it to his face, and it wouldn't mean much to Bucky if he did, but Bucky knew.

Rumlow groaned and dropped heavily into a chair. “She’s a shit PA.”

Keeping his expression uninterested, Bucky’s eyes flicked over Rumlow mercilessly. Nobody accepted that Lorraine’s only purpose in Rumlow’s loosely-termed administration was secretarial support. Some days it was impossible for Bucky to hide his derision. He made a mental note to see if Lorraine might have what it took to be a death dealer. If she did, and she wanted it, she could have it.

Not waiting a beat, Bucky propped his hands against the table and leant into Rumlow’s space. “They were stalking a human.”

“I heard you the first time,” Rumlow snapped, his tone the same sort of _here we fucking go_ that Bucky had heard over his comm a few hours ago.

Bucky only now realized how much he preferred it via a scratchy connection and at a distance of a healthy handful of miles.

“And it was a stupid assumption then,” Rumlow continued. “You’re at the top of the very top of the food chain and you’re still paranoid as fuck.”

Bucky ground his teeth together. ‘Paranoid’ had nothing to do with it. Paranoid suggested he had something to lose.

He wanted to say as much, but was actually a little taken aback. It was unusual for Rumlow to shut him down this forcefully and without hearing him out. The fact that Pierce himself had made Bucky a vampire carried its own twisted respect, but Bucky had since proven his worth and earned every shred of respect Rumlow was prepared to give.

Perhaps Rumlow really was just lying low, biding his time until the ambassadors were gone and he could do whatever the hell he wanted again, unwatched and unmonitored. Maybe, Bucky conceded, his own tone wasn't helping either. Taking a breath, he sat down in an attempt to look less confrontational. He pushed his anger back before he spoke again.

“I know what I saw. They've never shown their faces downtown before tonight. They came out for him.” Their kind had chased the lycans to the far reaches of existence. Bucky himself had lead hundreds of assaults and Rumlow had followed him on many of them. They both knew better than anyone what this meant.

Rumlow was resolute. “We’ve forced them out of their territories, they’re probably famished. They're looking for new hunting grounds wherever they can find them.”

“They opened fire on me.”

“What’s new,” Rumlow grunted. “We don’t exactly fly under their radar. They know what you look like and who you are, they’d be stupid not to take the first shot.”

“In full view of the public?”

Rumlow paused.

“They were following him,” Bucky said firmly.

“Even if they were, we’re talking about a couple of stragglers picking on a scrawny weak kid.”

Bucky scowled. He’d known immortals with less grit in their gut than this human. It would be pointless to say it, but he found he couldn't look Rumlow in the eye after that.

“There's a den down there. I'm sure of it.”

“What you’re talking about is impossible. Dens like that don't exist anymore. We've hunted the lycans to the brink of extinction.”

Bucky clenched his fingers around the edge of the table. ‘The brink’ seemed to be good enough for Rumlow, but it wasn’t for Bucky. To his mind, lycans warming themselves on the fringe of hell was a far cry from them burning within it. But that was incidental — Rumlow just didn't want to admit that there was a den right under his nose.

“They called for backup and six more came up from the tracks moments later,” Bucky pressed.

“So they had a second team. Maybe they were expecting resistance.”

“From the scrawny weak kid?” Bucky challenged.

Rumlow’s look was unimpressed. “Or from you. Sounds to me like your source double-crossed you. This was a one-off incident. Nothing about it indicates a den.”

“If you're so sure, let me take a team down and check it out.”

Rumlow’s quick exhale wasn't the answer Bucky wanted it to be. “Look, I know you don't like me—”

“Damn right I don’t, but that’s not the point. Pierce would want us looking for those lycans as soon as the sun goes down.”

Rumlow’s bad mood erupted at that. “Oh, that’s right,” he snarled, “because we’re just a bunch of feral strays without Pierce.”

There was something in Rumlow’s tone, the mirth on his lips, that Bucky didn't care to understand.

He trusted Pierce without question, but not on this. Not about Rumlow’s capacity to rule. A coven leader was meant to negotiate, judge and be judged. And if necessary, punish. Rumlow was rough, needlessly aggressive, eliciting fear not respect. And he was undoubtedly corruptible. He and Bucky were reluctant colleagues, cracking out fault lines, never knowing when the tectonic plates of their interests would jar.

Bucky waited for Rumlow to simmer down, and eventually he did, drumming his thumb against the table and sighing. “If it's not coincidence, there will be a pattern. We wait for a pattern.”

Bucky cut him off with a shake of the head. “And by then, they—”

“I don’t want your time taken up with this,” Brock interrupted, casual like they were talking about one rogue lycan, not a highly organized pack. “I’ll deal with it. The human too.”

“No,” Bucky said quickly. “Let me handle him. He’s my problem.”

“You forget that I know how you handle your problems, Barnes. And it usually involves shooting them in the head. He’s still alive and that’s how I know you can’t be trusted to deal with him.”

Bucky took a deep breath and released it, a steady rhythm that only just stopped him smashing Rumlow’s face into the hardwood table.

“I’ll sort it,” Rumlow said with finality.

“As priority,” Bucky pushed.

“If it means you’ll drop it, yes. I need your attention on more important missions. You leave this the hell alone, Bucky. We clear?”

The ability to ignore every single word out of Rumlow’s mouth was an art honed over centuries, and Bucky was a master. “Sure,” he shrugged.

Rumlow’s responding nod was textbook, more of a warning to Bucky than a mark of respect. It didn’t mask the suspicion. Underneath, he wore the same face he always wore when Bucky refused to tow the party line.

As Bucky made his way back down the hall, he heard Rumlow turn to the two vampires from his team and say, “Put a tracer on him.”

One of them scoffed quietly to the other as they followed Bucky through the doors. “Good luck getting close enough.”

“Me?” came the responding hiss. “No way, it’s your turn.”

Bucky took mercy and dropped them round the next corner.

~

Clint had lived through some of history’s worst dictatorships and hundreds of revolutions in a handful of different countries, if he wanted to drink straight from the juice carton he’d damn well do it, whatever the hell Maria might have to say about it. He might take a bite from that wedge of gouda too.

Easy to say, Clint thought, even easier to do when it was Bucky’s fridge he was poking his head into and not Maria’s.

Grinning, he seized the vegetable tray, knowing full well it would be full of dairy not salad. Cheese in hand, he turned, jumping a foot in the air when the yellowish light from the fridge spilled into the darkness and the shadows shifted to show Bucky leaning casually against the wall with a blank expression on his face.

“You fucker,” Clint groused, throwing the open packet at Bucky’s head.

Bucky caught it, slowly regarding the missing semi-circle in the shape of Clint’s teeth. “What if I’d been planning cheese fondue?”

Clint smirked. “Then I’d know there’s some decent bread around here too.”

Bucky grinned and kept his eyes from drifting to the microwave where he’d stashed a sourdough as soon as he’d heard Clint snick open the door.

Shouldering off the wall, Bucky took a step closer to squint into Clint’s face. “Hey, you look familiar—”

“God, here we go. You're such a nerd.”

“— Claude, isn’t it?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Come on, Bucky, give me a break. I was gone six months out of an eternity.”

The playfulness slipped from Bucky’s face a little as he shrugged, voice more serious as he said, “A single week is a long time with this lot. Which is exactly why you volunteered to show Wanda the other covens.”

“I am offended,” Clint said, sounding quite the opposite. “I volunteered because if any of those other fuckers had done it, she would have been bored into her second grave.”

“Just like here, then,” Bucky lamented, but only because it seemed even pettier to say, _Rumlow was a dick and I hate him more than I did eighty years ago_ , or, _Maintaining this indifferent facade gets harder every day._

And really, it’s not like he’d been twiddling his thumbs. There’d been mission after mission. If anyone had ever wondered if there was a point at which three generations of vengeance could be satiated, Bucky would tell them no. No number of dead lycans could fully avenge his family, and he’d never tried to keep count anyway.

Bucky sighed. “I kept busy.”

Reading the subtext like Bucky had shouted the words, Clint’s eyes dragged across his face and he offered a tight nod of sympathy, before lightening the mood like Bucky knew he would. “You know what they say about all work and no play...”

“You calling me dull?”

The irony was, the days the death dealers had jobs was the furthest from dull Bucky’s life got. _Receive orders, execute, debrief_. Rinse and repeat, all perfectly within his comfort zone and in no way dull. That is, until moments like this when a dubious little voice muttered about exactly how perfect an endless cycle of hunt and kill actually was.

It was a bitter thought and if he wasn't careful it would crack his mask wide open.

Not party to Bucky’s internal squabble, Clint barked a surprised laugh. “Dull? Hardly. I was gonna go for monosyllabic killing machine. Needs work, I know.”

Somehow that didn't make Bucky feel any better.

“Anyway, I’d say it’s nice to be back, but you just scared the shit out of me.”

“Not nice to creep up on people is it?” Bucky snarked. “Let’s call it payback for the church roof.”

“Right,” Clint scoffed, drawing the word out with the kind of sarcasm he loved most. “You must have been terrified.”

“Yeah, well I’ve always found your face pretty terrifying.”

Clint hadn’t been due back from Seoul for three days, but Bucky had felt the unannounced presence at his six on the rooftops. It was a pretty cheap sense of amusement, a stupid game they played, but Bucky liked the idea of letting Clint think he hadn’t spotted him until it was time to jump. If it weren’t for Bucky’s pride, he would have hollered over and demanded that he go get some dinner.

“Next time, I’ll warn you,” Clint assured him. “A bullet in the foot should do it.”

Another tiny smile played its way onto Bucky’s lips. His smiles never lasted long, but Clint had this way of needling out parts of him that he thought were lost.

“Anyway,” Clint continued, bypassing Bucky and heading straight to the coffee machine. “I was being useful.”

“So be useful… hand it over.”

Clint tossed an SD card over his shoulder. Bucky had slipped it into his laptop and was spooling through night-vision images before Clint had approximated the quantity of coffee grounds he needed to throw into the filter.

“It's a pain in the ass using a telescopic lens when your own eyes are better,” Clint grumbled.

“Right. Is that why you stopped to take arty shots of the moon instead of helping me out in the subway.”

Clint laughed into the juice carton he hadn't bothered to return. “Like you couldn't handle it just fine.”

Scrolling, enhancing and selecting his way through the images, Bucky watched the night replay in a jerky frame-by-frame retelling as Clint cleared his throat. “You heard anything from Romania?”

The coffee gurgled its way into life in the background as Bucky hummed his way through avoiding the question. He may have embraced immortality, but he'd never understood vampires who preferred the glugging pour of blood to the sound of a hissing kettle or bubbling Keurig. Sometimes he wondered who the barbarians really were.

“Stop ignoring me.”

Bucky looked up quickly because he'd never ignore Clint. He was a friend, and beneath all the bickering lay an easy companionship that had helped wile away the decades. A good friend, even when he’d drum the rhythm to a song that only he could hear as Bucky tried to concentrate. A great friend. And really, he was the only one Bucky had.

“I'm not ignoring you. And you could at least tell me the song before you slaughter it.”

Holding his hands up in an insolent surrender, Clint persisted. “They say our favorite shunned elder has stopped trying to contact you.”

Bucky absorbed himself in enhancing the first image on the stick. In truth, Nicholas Fury had not stopped. He’d been under house arrest in Romania since Bucky had put him there way too long ago. The dominant death dealer part of Bucky’s brain had always wondered why the man continued to waste his one communication a month on an appeal for Bucky to visit him. Whatever the motive, no amount of information offered would tempt Bucky to break his promise to Pierce.

When Bucky looked up, Clint was looking more inclined to push by the second. Equally inclined to disoblige, Bucky asked, “What else do they say?”

Not to be diverted, Clint grabbed milk from the cooler and pressed on. “That there was a good reason for his exile. But I figured you could tell me more seeing as you led that operation and have never said a word about it.”

It spoke volumes that Clint didn't hold the night’s photographs over Bucky’s head in what would have been a resoundingly successful guilt trip.

“I hope you didn't make any promises to Wanda about taking her there because he's not permitted visitors,” Bucky muttered eventually.

“Except you, who refuses to go,” Clint reminded, regarding him seriously as he leant against the back of the sofa. “I hope you didn't make any promises,” he started in a calm echo of Bucky’s own words, “because you might need him someday.”

Bucky sighed as Clint fetched the filtered coffee and settled in the seat with bright eyes and a new tack. “Maybe he wants to leave you something in his will. Bran castle, man. Think of the parties.”

“If you want parties, just stick around here a while.”

Cup in hand, Clint gave him an odd look. “Didn't take Brock Rumlow for the sophisticated party type.”

“Nobody used that adjective. Think less _Interview with a Vampire_ and a bit more _Blade_. Think a bit more orgies on the parlor floor.”

Clint’s coffee stalled on its journey to his mouth. “You're shitting me.”

“Unfortunately not,” Bucky grumbled, although he really couldn't care less as long as it didn't involve him. “No more after-dinner port for me.”

Snorting, Clint rolled his shoulders out and pointed a vaguely accusatory finger in Bucky’s direction. “It's your own fault. You were the one that petitioned Pierce to have a warrior left in charge.”

Bucky huffed a humorless laugh, because yes, he took his fair share of responsibility. When it was time for Pierce to go under, with Carter the only elder awake but based abroad, Bucky had begged Pierce not to put a bureaucrat in place to run the coven and to choose a combat leader instead. Perhaps that would have been the time to explicitly exclude Rumlow from the suggestion. Bucky had waited a few weeks until after the fallout to make his judgment, but when he didn't like the way the dust settled, he didn't try and hide his disapproval.

“I meant a warrior with a brain.”

“You’re saying brain, but you mean moral compass.”

Bucky left the comment alone, mostly because while Clint was right, it would do no good now. And it seemed ridiculous that a vampire should care about morals at any rate. He remembered his training even if he remembered nothing before it. All that mattered was that Rumlow had been in charge for under a year and the cracks in the foundations were already starting to show.

Clint smiled himself into silence. He sassed a lot less with a hot coffee in his hand, and remained quiet for the length of time it took Bucky to enhance all of the photos until the two lycans and their human target were easily identifiable.

“How was Korea?” Bucky asked absently, analyzing one of the pictures closely and paying way too much attention to monochrome cheekbones.

Clint narrowed his eyes. “Why’d you ask?”

“Maybe because I’m interested to know whether you had a good trip?” The deliberate infliction said otherwise. Clint might be Bucky’s best friend, but vacation enjoyment wasn't something that particularly concerned him. Korea had sent Clint back alive, and that made it a good trip as far as Bucky was concerned. A second later, the truth won out. “You look far too happy to be genuinely happy. What’s going on?”

“Well, it is genuine. And mostly because I’m leaving again tomorrow.”

“Already?”

“Haven't finished our tour by alphabet yet. You should join us on the next letter. We’re round to R.” Clint gave him a sideways glance and a smirk, as though Bucky wouldn’t know what he was getting at.

“I heard Reykjavik is lovely this time of year,” Bucky deadpanned.

Clint rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. But Romania’s warmer. I'll send Fury your regards.”

“Wouldn't it make sense to take a more geographical approach?” Bucky sidetracked.

“I am three hundred years old, buddy. And two hundred of those have been spent with you. I gave up on sense a long time ago.”

Relieved that the subject of Romania had been dropped, Bucky selected the clearest image and zoomed in again, eyes tracing over the blond when he should have been assessing the lycan threat behind.

From over Bucky’s shoulder, Clint asked, “Did they follow him all the way into the subway?”

Bucky drew his gaze up. “Yes,” he said, feeling validated. “The question is why.”

“For food?”

“Could be,” Bucky hedged, suppressing a shiver. He’d cranked up the heat an hour ago and he was still rubbing goosebumps off his arms.

“Could be,” Clint echoed. “But just in case it's not, have another present.”

Bucky accepted the proffered USB stick and manila file with a thankful grin and greedily started opening data files.

“No problem,” Clint said, jumping over the back of the sofa to top up his coffee and returning with the whole jug. “Never thank me for hacking Rumlow’s system. Maria’s the one to thank anyway, she got me in on the proviso that I never tell her what I was looking for, and the small matter of a favor I will always owe her.”

Bucky knew Clint’s bravado was just that. A favor owed to Maria was never trivial or anything but dangerous. Any minute, Clint might start whining about it.

Pausing to grin and slide a mug in front of Bucky, Clint added, “I may have copied some of Rumlow’s personally incriminating files that we could potentially exploit too.”

“Potentially,” Bucky mocked softly. “That might have to wait though.” He reached for the mug, wrapping his fingers around it and savoring the delicious warmth. “Shit, you heated the milk didn’t you?”

“Yep,” Clint winked. “And stole myself some bread.”

Bucky groaned and waited for the spike of caffeine to hit. He chased it up with a long inhale, just in case the rich, undoubtedly expensive scent would speed up the process.

“Couldn't get anything on those UV bullets though. Bit fancy for a lycan.”

“You think they have links to the military?”

“I’m not the man to ask.”

Bucky sighed heavily. He wasn’t going down that road unless he had to. The Stark road usually rounded off in havoc for Bucky’s stress levels.

Pulling up another file revealed a full-color scan of a battered birth certificate, identifying the blond as Steven Rogers. “Steve,” he said, playing with the way the word felt on his tongue. “What have you gotten yourself into, huh?”

Clint sucked on his lips and sighed. “I take it Rumlow warned you off this?” In the unsurprising silence that followed, Clint took a gulp of coffee and rubbed his temple as though warding off a headache. “Look, I know he’s a dick. This particular bout of dickishness is part of his campaign to cuddle up to the envoys. Doesn’t make him any less of a dick, but seeing as you and I are the only ones that know that, let's not broadcast this okay?”

With a silent snort, Bucky raised disbelieving eyebrows in Clint’s direction. If anyone was going to broadcast anything, it would be Clint, and Bucky wouldn’t be a true friend if he didn’t point it out with a carefully considered look at the very least.

Rewarded with a scowl and the satisfaction of a job well done, Bucky turned his attention back to the screen and flicked to the grainy image of a dirty street and a manhunt.

“Biscuit?” Clint offered.

“What kind?”

“Seriously? The biscuit kind. Who cares. Being a vampire has changed you, man.”

 _You didn’t know me before I was a vampire_ , Bucky didn't bother to interject.

“It’s a fruit biscuit, I guess. With sultanas,” Clint mumbled, annoyed as he finally consulted the packet. “Garibaldi. There you go. Who doesn’t like an Italian revolutionary biscuit.”

Bucky screwed his face up. “Travelling has changed you, man.”

Clint just grinned. There was a tiny bit of dried fruit stuck in his teeth and Bucky embraced the childish amusement he felt as he elected not to tell him.

Chewing his lip, Bucky turned the screen to Clint. “It ever occur to you that in the time Brock’s been in charge of the coven, he’s waged war on everyone but them?”

“Lycans? Sure it has,” Clint replied neutrally. “And I know you noticed it too, so why does it matter all of a sudden?”

“Him,” Bucky said, tapping the screen. “Steven Rogers.”

Clint leaned into the screen, its gloomy light casting his face with a grayscale echo of the image it displayed. “He crossed the street three times to see if they'd follow.”

“And they did.” Bucky leant back in his chair to chew over Brock’s spiel from earlier, the one he'd been planning on ignoring completely, when his mind got hooked on one sentence. “Was anyone else on the rooftops?” Clint shook his head. “Anyone else seen these photos?”

“No, why?”

“‘A couple of stragglers picking on a scrawny weak kid’.” He glanced up to Clint. “Rumlow knew.”

Clint groaned out a sigh. “Dammit, this is gonna get messy.” He turned the laptop back round to Bucky. “You're going to go looking for him aren't you?”

“No need,” Bucky replied, not lifting his eyes from the officious brown folder printed with a name he felt he’d be hearing a lot over the coming hours. “He's next door.”

Clint opened his mouth but no sound came out. It amused Bucky no end.

“Next door? As in… in your bedroom, next door?”

Bucky dusted off some sarcasm. “No, the other next door, the pantry.” He rolled his eyes. “The guy’s unconscious, not dead.”

“We keep the synthetic plasma in the freezer, Bucky. It's hardly surprising you're always hungry if you're looking in the pantry. Hang on, you mean to tell me he’s next door, more than likely with his phone and wallet? Both of which you could have identified him from.” Clint looked affronted, clearly thinking about the apparently unnecessary favor he now owed Maria.

Bucky rustled the papers like the little shit he sometimes thought he was, and tilted his grin.

He cooled his face into some semblance of innocence when he heard Wanda stepping out of the elevator and into the hall. The expression was nine seconds too early for Wanda, but it was worth it for the way Clint narrowed his eyes and told him he didn't play fair.

“Bucky’s an asshole,” Clint announced when Wanda slipped the lock on the door.

“I don't believe a word,” she said, leaning down go give Bucky a hug and a face full of tumbling red waves.

Bucky furrowed his eyebrows and made his eyes big. “He stole my bread.”

She pouted sympathetically and seized Clint’s coffee on her way to perch on the kitchenette counter. Wanda had been a vampire a tiny fraction of the time that most of the coven had, and she was family to Clint and Bucky like most of the others would never be.

“He won't eat my biscuits,” Clint appealed.

Wanda assessed the packet Clint was waving around and screwed up her face. “Shocking,” she commented before withdrawing a brightly colored packet from her jacket pocket. “Wine gum?” she stage whispered to Bucky.

“Bran castle might be called off,” Clint huffed.

“He can't have visitors,” Bucky stressed pointlessly.

“Glad you two are being normal,” Wanda intervened. “Lorraine is acting odd.”

“The pissed off kind of odd?” Clint enquired.

“You're such a gossip, but yes.”

“Word has it she got chewed out by Rumlow and it's kind of Bucky’s fault. So by association, she’ll be pissed with us too. Think I'll sleep till it’s all over.”

“Vampires don’t sleep.”

“We don't _need_ to sleep,” Clint corrected her.

Wanda clucked her tongue and raised an eyebrow. “Is half the stuff you taught me even true?”

“Your expectations were too high, too glittery. Too many movies.”

Wanda opened her mouth to respond, but was suddenly looking at the wall to her right, hands tight on the counter. “Can I hear a heartbeat?”

Bucky had noticed the steady, sleeping pulse start to pick up. He wasn't surprised Wanda had heard it too.

“Sounds like your boy is waking,” Clint said. “I expect you want me to see if Maria can dig up anything on those UV rounds?”

“What's one favor when you can owe her two?” Bucky smirked, already headed to the bedroom door.

“I'll tell her this one's on you,” Clint grinned, walking his extended middle finger out the door before Bucky could return the sentiment.

~

On the other side of the door, Steve Rogers was dreaming away the REM stage of his sleep cycle, eyelashes twitching against his cheeks as he turned his face into the sofa cushion.

Bucky had heard the telltale increase in heart rate and accelerated breathing through the wall, but now the hectic pulse rattled so loud it could have been in his own veins.

Bucky was impatient to wake him, to quiz him, but he knew enough to know that forcing him into consciousness wasn't the best way to build a rapport. Needless to say that his usual approach of demanding information at gunpoint was definitely off the cards.

While he waited, Bucky sat at his desk and went through the rest of the files Clint had sold his soul for. He pulled up everything there was to know about Steve Rogers. Credit ratings, lease agreements, call logs. High school GPAs, which he didn’t really need to see but was curious about regardless.

It was the medical records that took the longest. Asthma, astigmatism, anemia was just the start of it, and that didn’t include the temporary conditions he’d recovered from. The list continued on and on until Bucky was convinced that Steve Rogers had every ailment under the sun.

Not that you’d ever fucking know it, Bucky thought as his mind skipped back over the scene in the subway. He vaguely wondered how many friends Steve had, and whether they often found themselves starting their sentences with the words, _Steve don’t_.

Courage and bullishness aside, there was nothing in Steve’s behavior, or the data Bucky had read so far, that shed any light on the reason a lycan clan would want him.

So for the time being, all Bucky knew was that someone needed to keep Steve Rogers alive. Unfortunately, Bucky could already tell that it wasn't a task he could entrust to Steve Rogers himself.

Bucky cast his eyes over the sleeping form. Under the honeyed glow of a low lamp, there was no trace of the frown he'd worn when Bucky last saw him awake. Awake and angry and understandably distrusting. Turning back, Bucky sighed into the phlebotomy reports he was no longer reading. It wouldn't be long before the frown returned.

Sure enough, a second sigh later, Steve jerked awake.

Bucky knew the exact moment adrenalin dumped into his veins, firing his blood and numbing some of his pain as he bolted into a sitting position, wild eyes snapping around the unfamiliar room as he heaved in lungfuls of air.

Bucky kept very still for two reasons. One because he didn’t want to cause alarm or appear a threat, and two because he genuinely didn’t think he would need to halt an escape — an educated guess told him exactly which side of fight or flight this man would come down on.

“Steve,” he said slowly, quietly, interrupting only the ragged sound of Steve’s breathing and the urgent assessment of his eyes.

Steve’s gaze shot to Bucky, eyes rounding with recognition but losing none of their sharp focus. He said nothing.

“You should lie back down,” Bucky tried again, keeping his voice mild. “You took a real battering.”

He knew instantly it was the wrong thing to say.

Chin tilted, Steve just glared. It was kind of terrifying in its own way, that flinty, distrusting look on his face.

_Great._

Bucky would admit that he wasn't the best interrogator in the house, but even by his standards, this was a very bad start. The thing is, it was normally a hell of a lot easier than this.

Loosening his frame to look as unthreatening as possible, he leant back and extended his empty hands forward on the desk to prove he was unarmed. “My name’s Bucky.”

Finally, Steve blinked. He gave himself a fraction of a second to let the information sink in before very slowly and very evenly demanding, “Where am I and what the hell happened?”

“You’re safe,” Bucky replied. “How do you feel?”

Steve relaxed from fear only to tense with irritation at Bucky’s softly concerned tone. He let out an unamused huff of laughter that struck Bucky more like a snort of fire. Every line of his body hinted at a stubbornness that Bucky found infuriating and attractive in equal measure.

“Feel fine, thanks,” the blond bit out eventually, clearly not thankful in the slightest that Bucky had assumed he wouldn't be. “Why? How should I feel?”

Right, no coddling, Bucky should have learned that lesson back in the subway. That was fine — Bucky wasn't much of a coddler.

He suppressed a sharp smile, and shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe like you’ve been hit in the chest by an eighteen-wheeler.” He paused to bury the burgeoning smile deeper. “Other than that, fine I guess. Look, I don't know what you think I'm trying to say about you, but the fact is, anybody would have sustained physical trauma from that impact.”

Steve’s cheeks flushed a little, fingers fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. When he looked back up, his face had softened slightly but his eyes were still wary.

“What happened?”

“There was a terrorist attack in the subway,” Bucky lied his favorite half-lie. “One of the assailants knocked you out.”

Steve squinted for a second, focusing through what had to be a pounding headache to search Bucky’s face. The explanation was close enough to be believable and for many people that would be enough — a plausible explanation that settled their nerves in a time of anxiety. Bucky waited to see if it would be enough for Steve, but whatever conclusion the man came to, he said nothing more about it.

Instead he looked away, experimentally twisting his body, freezing with a wince when he accidentally tested the ribs that were invariably broken in several places. Bucky knew he was feeling a tight band around his torso, a forever burn that wouldn’t subside, then an excruciating stab with all but the smallest movements. Before too long the inflammation and internal bleeding would make it hurt to breathe.

If Bucky hadn't had a job to do that involved extermination of an entire species, he might have taken the time to get him an ice pack.

“Where am I?”

“Someplace safe,” Bucky repeated, tone falling somewhere between reassuring and daring Steve to question it.

“Safer than at a hospital?”

Wordlessly, Bucky held Steve’s gaze, let his silence say whatever Steve wanted it to say. He wasn't going to lie, he just held perfectly still, kept his face flawlessly neutral as Steve’s curious eyes assessed him for both character and intent.

Whatever it was he saw, Bucky didn't miss the way his walls thinned just enough to let Bucky see his wince as he pulled himself up the cushions and settled uncomfortably with his back to the armrest.

Bucky wanted to think him an idiot for letting his guard drop even a little, but Steve Rogers was not an idiot, and it wasn't trust but resignation that had him sagging back into the space the light didn't reach. He shifted, limbs arranged awkwardly; not quite prepared to make a run for it but not content to sit still and wait either.

Bucky found his fingers flexing to the fluctuating cadence of Steve’s breathing, flighty and shallow, broken finally by a sigh and a soft, sullen question.  
  
“I'm not walking out of this room anytime soon am I?”

Bucky clenched his teeth against the dry laughter that tickled his throat. No, Steve Rogers was not an idiot, and Bucky, who’d been itching to get straight down to business from the very start, lost the last fingertip hold he had on his patience.

That wasn't all of it though. At the back of his mind was the worry that if he carried on pretending to care, he might actually begin to.

“You knew those men were following you,” he said firmly. “I need you to tell me why.”

“I have no idea,” Steve answered. “I'm a hard up nurse, and I look it. There were at least two other people on that platform worth robbing.”

“They’d been following you on the street too.”

Steve’s gaze flicked to him, instantly alert.

“Don’t look so surprised. I know you noticed them.”

Steve shook his head and stared off into the middle distance like he had an axe to grind with it.

“Do you carry meds on you?” Bucky had to ask. It was unlikely that a junior nurse would have access to new or groundbreaking drugs, but there was always a chance. And lycans weren't fussy.

“No,” Steve replied quickly, clearly offended. “Look, I don't know what to tell you. It's a bad part of town. Same as every other part of town.”

“Yeah, but they were only after you.”

Steve’s body stilled. “You're serious aren't you?”

Bucky matched his sigh with a wholehearted one of his own. Maybe it was too much, too soon, and Bucky knew better than to push too quickly, but time wasn’t on his side.

He exhaled, rubbing his thumb along the tabletop, digging a nail into the groove. “You have something they want.”

“How can you be so sure?” Steve asked, soft enough to hide most of the suspicion. “You know nothing about me.”

“I’ve got a whole file about you,” Bucky responded steadily, leaning over so that Steve could take the manila folder from his hand.

The whispery _whish whish_ of paper filled the room as Steve flicked through the file, heart rate gradually increasing the more he saw. Bucky could make out the clink of glasses somewhere on the other side of the mansion.

Eventually, Steve cleared his throat and closed the folder. “You have the wrong file,” he said coolly with an attempt at a poker face. A very poor one.

“Nope. Steven Grant Rogers. In both electronic and hard copy.”

“Two copies of the wrong file,” Steve responded dryly.

The corner of Bucky’s mouth flirted with a little smile. “Complete with juvie record.”

Eyes sharp, Bucky watched for Steve’s reaction. He hadn’t found any convictions, let alone evidence Steve was a juvenile offender, but Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if this man had been caught up in messes he had no business involving himself in, and it wouldn’t hurt to set him a little off kilter.

He watched Steve’s reaction for a few seconds. “It’s all readily available stuff to be honest. I guess data protection isn’t what it used to be.”

Steve took a quick, shallow breath, eyebrows pinching in a frown before looking away with disdain. Bucky was pretty sure it was the man’s unique take on an eye roll — infinitely more challenging and yet somehow more polite than the traditional version.

“You police?” Steve was asking doubtfully, looking back for a reaction. “Mafia?”

Bucky grinned. Really, Steve’s expression was too good not to fuck with. And he was starting to like the guy, which was always a sure fire way to bring out the asshole in him. “Something like that.”

Steve hissed out a breath as he shifted. Pinning a hand against his side as though the support would ease the pain, he turned on the sofa, feet just about finding the floor and eyes fumbling to take in the room.

Let him look, the vampire thought. If he could find anything of Bucky in here, then props to him.

“You got any aspirin?” Steve broke the silence to reluctantly ask.

Bucky’s grin reignited. The mansion was opulent, spilling over with expensive stuff nobody needed. Sex, blood and blow, and everything else besides. One thing they didn't have was something as innocuous as aspirin.

Unfolding himself from the chair, he bridged the gap to offer Steve a bottle of vodka. As far as pain relief went, it wouldn't be as effective as morphine, but it would be a damn sight better than aspirin. Steve seemed to agree if the way he white-knuckled the bottle and threw his head back on a gulp was anything to go by.

Bucky’s stomach dropped when the movement exposed the pale line of Steve’s throat, clear skin blazingly bright. His white t-shirt dipped down low to show the jut of his clavicle and Bucky only now remembered pulling on it in the subway, wrenching him out of the unrepentant path of a bullet, only to end up paying for it just an hour later, apparently. He looked away quickly, hoping to god Steve hadn’t noticed his eyes lingering.

Steve gave him a considering look. “You don't look like police,” he advised, swallowing the alcohol in his mouth then flicking his eyes pointedly at the liquor. “Military, then?”

Starting to feel the weight of a ticking clock on his shoulders, Bucky mumbled a quick, “Yes,” while he calculated his options. In hindsight, his agreement wasn't as convincing as it could have been. He'd never been an interrogator. As his training went on, it became obvious that he no longer had the patience to placate or the heart to sugarcoat, and to be honest, right now he was too close to running out of time to be embarrassed. Something told him Steve Rogers wouldn't like placation very much anyway.

Bucky waited as Steve’s chest rose and fell, five breaths as deep as the pain allowed, before he pushed. “You really telling me you have no idea why they were after you?”

“You really telling me you don’t believe me? I already said I don't know anything.”

“Yes you did. And the criminally inclined would do the exact same thing,” Bucky said lightly.

Narrow shoulders shrugged off the accusation. “So would the innocent.”

True, but in light of Steve’s insolent smirk, Bucky somehow doubted that he was always innocent, and Bucky knew when he was being tested. He let his eyes flint over, could play this game better than anyone, but Steve didn't flinch and under Bucky’s skin the usual irritation wasn't there, just a very unfamiliar hum of pleasant surprise.

Steve dropped his hands to the sofa, long fingers framing his hips and leaving his posture open. Trusting or testing, Bucky wasn't sure. The not knowing wasn't the issue, it was that there was a niggling part of him that actually cared to find out.

Under Bucky’s reading lamp, Steve’s eyes were alert and very, very blue. When he reached up to press a hand into the muscle of his shoulder, the hem of his shirt dragged up, and Bucky had to look away quickly. Had to, but somehow didn’t, too caught up in pretty, artful angles, the slip of pale stomach, bumps of collar and hip bones that Bucky mapped with his eyes but refused to commit to memory.

Rounding the desk in search of distraction, Bucky took the vodka bottle in hand, eyebrows raised at Steve in a silent question that he didn’t get an answer to. He pulled the bottle to his lips anyway and watched Steve’s eyelashes flicker.

“Who are you?”

Bucky frowned. “I told you. My name’s Bucky.”

“Not what I meant,” he said, eyes narrowed. “You abducted me and brought me to your...” he gestured about him as though hovering somewhere around _house slash apartment slash period-feature castle,_ “...wherever this is. My guesses at mafia and military are optimistic at best. Who are you really?”

It was a question Bucky would never answer, but he realized he should have at least tried for a lie when Steve sighed, sitting back and folding his arms like he wanted Bucky to see that his mind was closing down, ready to cut Bucky off completely. “Right,” he muttered.

“Don’t trust them,” Bucky said quickly, immediately concerned that his own inability to inspire trust and camaraderie, to charm even, would send Steve running right into the arms of the opposition when Bucky eventually had to let him go.

“I wasn't planning on trusting anyone.”

Considering Bucky’s life had just gotten unbearably harder, he was reluctantly impressed. Steve had stepped over easy mistake number one: trusting your rescuer.

“Smart,” Bucky acknowledged out loud.

“Not really,” Steve scoffed. “They tried to kill me, and you abducted me. The view ain't so different whichever way I look.”

“They weren't trying to kill you.”

Steve frowned, at a complete loss. “You just said I shouldn't trust them and now you're giving me a reason to.”

“They were within a five foot radius of you for almost two minutes. If they wanted you dead, you'd be dead. Doesn’t mean you’d like their real intentions any better.”

Steve looked him over. As much as Bucky would like to preen under the attention, it wasn't the sort of gaze that was intended to compliment. Clearly he’d taken the early part of Bucky’s speech to heart when it would have suited Bucky far better if it had been the latter.

If Bucky were inclined to take a rough guess at Steve’s thought process, it would go something like, _If I was under imminent threat for a full two minutes, why the fuck didn't you do something sooner?_

Once-over complete, Steve simply fixed him with an unimpressed look before scrutinizing the room again. “Do you live here?”

Adamantly, Bucky stared straight ahead. He knew what Steve would be seeing: a spacious room with a vaulted ceiling, white and bland and generic. A desk, a sofa and a modest chest of drawers. Rich wood and flint walls and lead around the windows. The trappings of a listed, historic building, but not much of anything else. Absolutely nothing else, really. Which was exactly how Bucky wanted it to look. If the room was his own, and not likely to be randomly searched by someone looking for ammunition against him in an attempt to vault themselves up the hierarchy, he’d be as messy, ready to leave at a moment’s notice and himself as he wanted to be. As it was, he’d turned the bed he didn't need into storage for his record player and favorite books, and kept it hidden. Everything else was stashed under the floorboards.

And yes, Steve Rogers, that was exactly where Bucky hid himself.

“Yes, I live here,” he confirmed eventually, knowing the answer came out surly and standoffish. He refused to defend himself or provide proof of the personality the room lacked.

Steve had no basis of comparison, but aside from the obvious minimalism, Bucky’s room wasn’t as gilded as the rest of the house, which oozed extravagance, stolen wealth accumulated over the centuries. It could all have been Bucky's if he’d wanted it. And he had for a short time, while he’d been adjusting to the new life he'd been gifted. That had been a period of Bucky’s life when it was all he could do not to run his fingers across Egyptian cotton bedspreads and textured walls just to check it was all real. Now it soured his tongue.

“Where’s your bed?” Steve asked, slightly confused but intense enough that Bucky had to resist the urge to fidget.

He tipped his head towards the sealed off alcove all the same. “There.”

Truthfully, he wasn't used to being asked personal questions. He was even more unfamiliar with hearing himself answer them. Nobody but Clint and Wanda and that dude from security, whose name Bucky liked to pretend to forget, asked him personal questions anymore.

He'd normally have clammed up by now. He _should_ have clammed up by now. It said more about Steve than it did about Bucky that he was discomforted by the forwardness rather than threatened by it. But jesus, Steve’s mouth was opening on another question, and Bucky was starting to get the feeling that this seemingly innocent line of enquiry was designed to trip Bucky up somehow.

“Don't you have a TV?”

Bucky reluctantly pointed at his laptop and went to ask a question of his own, but Steve got there first.

“Or books?”

Bucky frowned.

“Where are your clothes?”

Bucky pulled a face. “Where are your manners?”

It wasn't meant to be funny, but Steve let out a quiet but beautifully genuine chuckle all the same. The sound was a little startled, a little amused, and some kind of pleasant that Bucky was working on placing when another noise cast shade on the room.

It was more laughter. This time, thick and dark. It slipped its way through the cracks in the door, invading the space between them, a tell-tale reminder that there was an outside world that wanted Steve dead. By the time the noise had peeled off into nonsensical whispers, every trace of Steve’s own quiet laugh was gone, and he was carefully moving toward the window.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky watched Steve fiddle with the shutters, sliding them just enough that the light illuminated his face and Bucky had to clench his teeth to keep from startling away from the sudden shaft of sunlight that bathed the wooden floorboards and the contours of Steve’s face.

Bucky had torn the UV protection film off the glass years ago. Some of the death dealers saw it as brave, which worked out just fine. In truth, Bucky just couldn't stand to see the world through washed out grays.

Under the guise of returning the bottle to the table, he maneuvered out of the sun’s path. He could feel Steve’s eyes on his back.

“I have to get out of here,” Steve said. “I start another shift at eight. I need sleep.”

“You need to start talking,” Bucky responded. “You’re not going anywhere. ”

“Yes,” Steve said, “I am.” His expression was so very _I know my rights_ that Bucky was smiling before he even realized his indifference was slipping.

“Not right now you’re not. I need to ask you some more questions.”

Bucky watched Steve’s jaw tense a little more with every word, until his whole upper body was a tight line of irritation. “I don’t have any answers for you.” Though it was slowed by vodka and pain, Steve’s voice was steeled with conviction. “I'll find a way out.”

The deep breath Bucky pulled into his lungs didn't push out the discomforting feeling that Steve might actually be right. The cells in the basement were impenetrable, inescapable, but Bucky couldn't put Steve down there — Rumlow’s men would chatter furious whispers back to their boss quicker than Bucky could lock the door. He could keep Steve in his room, but even if he stripped it of every object that might aid escape, Bucky could reel off a dozen ways Steve could break out. Instinct told him it probably wouldn't take Steve long to fathom them all out either. From there, he was minutes away from zeroing in on the most effective route home.

Bucky carefully kept his eyes from flicking to the loose brick under the window and looked at Steve instead, ready to start another line of questioning when Steve cut the quiet himself.

“Who’s blood is this?” he asked evenly, plucking at his blood red t-shirt.

Bucky fought down a shrug. To him it was a pointless question, but he guessed Steve wasn’t as cold and jaded as he was. “Theirs.”

If Steve really cared to know, there was probably some of Bucky’s own blood imprinted on the cotton too. He didn't volunteer the information because Steve would probably demand to see the wound for either evidence or triage. Either way, the gash had completely healed and that itself would be difficult to explain.

“Good,” Steve nodded definitively. “Did the ambulance—”

“You could borrow a clean shirt,” Bucky interrupted clumsily.

The responding look of surprise made Bucky think over what he’d just offered. But no, a shirt was a normal human thing to own and lend, he was sure of it. He was already walking to his dresser, so he was just going to have to go with it. A second of rummaging through kevlar later, pushing aside a pair of chelsea boots he couldn't bring himself to throw away, he pulled out an old band t-shirt. Perfect — he could pass it off as Clint’s.

Only for some reason, he was pressing the material into Steve’s hand as he tentatively said, “You can wear one of mine.”

So much for distance.

Steve took the shirt, still with that same look of surprise, then a tiny smile lit his eyes, soft like how the sun was kissing the tips of his hair.

Bucky couldn’t help the burst of pride that flooded his cheeks. It wasn’t often he got to make a cute guy smile. But this one was definitely off limits, so as heartbreaking as it was, he purposely avoided the flat plane of stomach that came into view as Steve pulled his blood-splattered shirt off. It was probably for the best anyway. Some of the bruises that were no doubt starting to pop on Steve’s skin were of Bucky’s own making. The thought sparked a sense of snarling guilt he hadn't felt for a long time. It was a lot easier to turn his attention away and over to his laptop after that.

Once Steve was sat back down on the sofa, he locked eyes with Bucky, long dawn-tipped eyelashes drifting down to sharp cheekbones. His expression was so close to the one he wore when they first saw each other, that for one ridiculous second Bucky almost let his guard down. Steve was so pretty, and time hadn’t blessed Bucky with the chance to work out whether that might pose a problem or not. Well, now he knew.

On the other side of the room, Steve kept his quiet vigil, t-shirt loose on his slight frame and so obviously not his own. Something spread like melting butter in Bucky’s chest just thinking about how Steve would own a little bit of him when the time came for him to walk out the door.

Luckily, Clint chose that moment to barge in with coffee. His eyes flicked to Steve and immediately back again.

“You're looking smug,” he advised Bucky as he stepped over the threshold, mug in hand and a face like he could see into Bucky’s soul and knew it needed soap and absolution.

Muttering some form of casual greeting around a mouthful of biscuit, Clint placed the steaming mug into Steve’s free hand and waved him away when he went to hand over the vodka.

“Nah,” he shook his head, “You’re going to need it. Coffee won't help with that.” He indicated to where Bucky’s neckline scooped low, dropping off Steve’s slim shoulder to reveal bruises bursting under the surface of his skin.

Having promised himself that he wouldn’t look again at that particular slip of enticingly bare collarbone, Bucky concentrated on Clint’s bizarre hospitality. This was generally not how they treated prisoners.

He threw Clint a look which loosely translated as, _What the fuck are you doing?_

“Guest,” Clint responded in explanation, countering Bucky’s look with one that said, _Don’t be an asshole_. Out loud, he stated, “I’m just being a good host,” and turned his attention back to Steve. “We don’t get many of your lot around here.”

Steve startled. “What?”

“Clint,” Bucky warned.

“I mean,” Clint smirked, “civilians.”

“Civilians?”

“Ignore him,” Bucky said quickly. “Too much caffeine.”

“Want a biscuit?” Clint offered Steve, completely unrepentant under Bucky’s fierce gaze.

Steve’s face lost the last of its confusion and was settling back into an indignant frown as he inclined his head in Bucky’s direction.

“Ask him,” he huffed, voice rougher and lower and more appealing than it should have been considering Bucky was on the receiving end of its hostility. “He seems to think he knows everything about me.”

Bucky blinked casually, perfectly content for Steve to hold that opinion.

Then Clint screwed it all to hell by laughing. “He doesn’t even know what _he_ wants.”

Clint smiled at Steve amiably, didn't push back the way Bucky would have done, and it was to everyone’s benefit when Steve visibly relaxed, declined a biscuit, which surprised only Clint, and extended his hand to introduce himself when it became obvious that Bucky wasn’t planning on doing it.

The smile Steve offered Clint wasn’t the same as the one Bucky had inadvertently earned with the t-shirt, but Bucky felt an ugly, tight envy at the way Clint could so easily win people over by being his ruggedly genuine self.

Bucky might have been that way once, but he couldn’t be sure.

“I never said _everything_ ,” he pointed out by way of re-inserting himself back into the conversation. “What I really need to know—”

“Is why they were after me,” Steve finished for him with slightly annoyed but resigned amusement. “Alright, ask me your questions and get it over with.”

Bucky chose to ignore Clint’s snigger.

Between the three of them — with Clint deigning to edit himself of all mention of vampire and werewolf — they circled a little around the events of the subway, ran into brick walls a lot, pushed along the lines of everyone Steve knew well and some he knew hardly at all, until Bucky was positive that Steve had no clue about whatever it was that made him special to the lycans.

Bucky was even more sure that if they were really after Steve Rogers, then they wouldn't stop. To get the proof he needed, Bucky was going to have to let him go. To Steve’s credit, he tried to hide his satisfaction when Bucky admitted to accepting what Steve had told him from the very start.

On his way to sneak Steve off the premises, Clint caught him at the threshold and very helpfully summarized, “Looks like we've got a problem,” to which Bucky could only sigh and nod.

Lycans stalking a human, a human that wouldn't or couldn’t cooperate, a den that might have the capacity to wipe out an entire coven. And on top of that, Steve was walking back out into the world drowning in Bucky’s clothes and it had already occurred to him that he could kick Steve’s abandoned shirt under his dresser and nobody would be any the wiser.

So, yes.

Everything about it spoke of a very serious fucking problem.


	3. III: The Hunt

**III: The Hunt**

 

The next night was warm, coal-dark and sticky with mid-summer humidity. Its heat didn’t seep through Bucky’s jacket or thaw the constant bone-gnawing cold that ached in every inch of his body, but it took the edge off.

 

It was no secret that vampires ran cold, but Bucky seemed to be colder than every vampire he'd met put together. Sometimes to the point of unbearable. Half the time he was surprised he didn't look down to see his skin pearl with condensation.

 

It had taken months after he’d been turned to retrain his brain not to send shivers through his muscles, months of clenching his jaw against the _click clack_ of his teeth chattering. His body didn't need to respond like that anymore. Not now that he was one of immortality’s undead.

 

 _Undead._ The word always struck him as hollow, not the victorious proclamation of looking death in the eye and coming out walking, but a bitter sense of _if only._

  
If only I were dead... but I'm not.

 

Still, if he indulged himself in a bit of melancholy after two hundred years of it, nobody could blame him. And he never allowed it for long. He was cold all the fucking time. What of it? It was what it was. And as Pierce once insisted, ‘what it was,’ was better than death.

 

He settled back against the roughened bark of the tree, spread his legs amongst the branches and watched Steve Rogers through the grimy second floor window with nothing but pure professionalism. Nature never designed trees as chairs but as uncomfortable as Bucky was, the hospital ward Steve was working his way around looked monumentally less welcoming. Bucky watched him sit at the foot of a cot, eyes down and squinting at the patient’s notes in the dim light. It must have been merciful for the patients who needed sleep, but Steve was frowning, struggling to read through his glasses.

 

He looked showered, but no less exhausted than he had when Bucky escorted him off the mansion premises with nothing more than a confusing exchange of:

 

“See you around,” which had come out a little more menacing than Bucky had planned.

 

To Steve’s, “Yeah, not to offend you pal, but I really hope not.”

 

In the darkened intensive care ward, one of a dozen heart rate monitors cast sickly green shadows across Steve’s face. The weak pick-up and drop in the middle of the screen reflected off his glasses.

 

The effect should have soured all of the prettiness of his features. But it didn't.

 

Huffing a breath into his scarf, Bucky tipped his head back to where the stars would be blinking if it weren't for the orange haze of light pollution. It made him think of the layer of oily city grime that had been clinging to his skin since the roof.

 

His thoughts took a swerve when the sound of an engine muted suddenly in the car park. Not too alarming in itself, but Bucky heard the tires roll with momentum all the way to the quieter staff drop-off point at the back of the hospital.

 

He stood up quickly, alert, and leaned as far as he could on the tree without the pressure of his metal hand breaking the trunk. It could have been nothing, but if Bucky was headed somewhere he shouldn't, he too would have cut the engine off at the last safe point and rolled the car to the darkest corner where he could infiltrate the hospital undetected.

 

He doubted the occupants would have done it to avoid human suspicion, so if they didn't know Bucky was there already, chances were they strongly suspected it.

 

The wind was all wrong, but Bucky didn't need to smell the three males that exited the car to know what they were. He quickly took the measure of them and braced to move, but froze when a small redhead followed the men out of the car. They looked back at her for a signal.

 

Bucky didn't wait around once he saw them force entry through the staff door. Digging in the boot of his heel for traction, he loosened his grip on the tree, sliding closer to the window so that he could yank at the frame until it gave way and opened with a squeal of buckled metal hinges.

 

He was through the hole and facing Steve’s wrath a second later.

 

“Bucky?!” Steve’s eyes scanned his face. Shocked, nervous, and undoubtedly furious.

 

“Someone’s here,” Bucky said quickly.

 

“No kidding,” Steve retorted with a snap, eyes blazing at Bucky in accusation.

 

He ripped the curtain around an unconscious patient’s bed in one fiercely protective movement that would do very little in the way of protection should the lycans find them.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Steve demanded, tugging another curtain closed, burying a groan of pain at the way it sent a fire flaring through his injured chest, and glaring up at Bucky with a disapproval that could match Pierce’s best efforts. “And what's with the B&E?!”

 

So this wouldn't be as easy as a quick grab and run then. Great. Bucky had to wonder what it was about himself that was so uninspiring it made Steve this adamant about being rescued.

 

“If you're here for morphine, you're out of luck,” Steve continued in an authoritative whisper. “It’s under lock and key, and even if I had access, there's no fucking way I'd give it to you. There are people here who actually need it.”

 

In the back of Bucky’s mind he noted that Steve hadn't said anything about breaking the rules or losing his job, but he was too busy cursing under his breath and storming around Steve to the door, ready to scout the corridor for immediate threat. Behind him, he heard Steve shout after him.

 

“Are you hurt? Is that why you're here?” The concern in Steve’s voice made Bucky’s steps slow. The moment was tarnished a second later when Steve followed up with, “Because we have an ER entrance for that.”

 

If it weren't for the imminent threat and the ease with which he could play a part when required, Bucky might have smiled. He might even have tried for a dry complaint about Steve’s bedside manner.

 

Instead, Bucky ignored him in favor of unhooking his glock.

 

“What the fuck, Bucky?!” Steve cursed loudly, eyes wide and narrowed in on the gun.

 

“Just shut up will you?” Bucky hissed, no longer endeared when Steve’s voice was loud enough to be heard by three killers on their way to annihilate them both. “Follow me.”

 

“I can't just leave! This is a high dependency unit. I'm needed here.”

 

“They're after you and they’re coming right now.”

 

Steve didn’t budge a damn inch. “I'm not leaving.”

 

“Not alive, apparently,” Bucky growled, letting only his anger and none of his awe show. “Look, I don't know what they want from you, but they'll torture you till they get it. Then they'll kill you.”

 

The screams started moments after the sound of gunfire filled Bucky’s ears, and less than a second later he had a hand around Steve’s elbow and was tugging him towards the window.

 

The lycans were zeroing in and Bucky had to think clearly. He couldn't let himself get distracted like he had in the subway. That had been careless, a rookie error, and over a guy, when he’d always prided himself on not thinking with his dick. He wouldn't let it happen again.

 

He heard a heavy tread somewhere in the east wing. A lighter, shorter stride below, far below, and although he couldn't pinpoint locations over the noise of terrified civilians and slugs burying themselves in reinforced concrete ceilings — just warning shots so far — he now had his suspicions about where the female lycan was.

 

“What’s in the basement?” he asked Steve.

 

Steve faltered, gaze flicking down to where Bucky’s hand had wrapped around his bicep. “Labs, records. ICT is in the sub basement. You know, servers and stuff.”

 

Yeah, Bucky knew servers and stuff. He also knew that lycans didn't have the same access to information that money afforded the vampires. They were probably after data. If that was all they were looking for then that would be a blessing, but right now Bucky’s head hurt from straining to hear the two sets of lycan footsteps unaccounted for amidst the din of panic.

 

Then the room was plunged into darkness.

  
Bucky lifted his gun higher, finger squeezing down closer to the trigger point, listening to the deafening _bip bips_ that echoed the beat of several dying hearts.

 

There was a pitchy whine and Bucky’s gun snapped to the source quicker than Steve could see, only to find that the shadows were arranged exactly the same as they had been before. It wasn't a lycan, just a semi-conscious patient moaning pitifully, and Bucky instantly felt Steve dig his heels in.

 

“I can't leave them,” he said in a firm whisper, side stepping Bucky’s body which had been steadily herding him back to the window.

 

Although Bucky was fully prepared to knock Steve out again, he now realized he wouldn't have to. Steve's single-minded conviction, the one that said he'd protect these innocent patients despite seeing first-hand the death that waited for him if he did, was his strength but also his weakness.

 

It was that same conviction that lit a fire in Steve’s eye, and somehow winded Bucky at the same time. The sensation was so strong that Bucky had to remind himself that he wasn't the one with broken ribs and a burning pressure on his chest. It shouldn't hurt him to breathe like this.

 

Shaking his head, Bucky refocused. “They’ll use them as leverage,” he told Steve, working the point of weakness like a knife blade against bone.

 

He could tell the instant Steve felt it because his body pulled taught, eyes blazing with resolve. He didn’t ask how Bucky was so sure, and considering that Bucky’s next step was to pull his gun on the nearest patient himself, he was relieved. He wasn’t quite ready to show Steve how merciless he really was.

 

“Alright—” Steve said, cutting himself off when he caught Bucky’s silencing expression. He clamped his mouth shut and nodded abruptly.

 

The nod turned into a jerk when Bucky’s gun fired over his head and into the lycan that was launching through the window. The bullet cracked through bone, snapping its head back and tipping the body backwards with a spray of blood that caught Steve’s cheek as he jumped away.

 

Bucky strode forward to grab the tac vest before the lycan could drop two floors and announce their location to the others. It wasn't Bucky’s only reason for grabbing the body. A single glance at the lycan’s face and Bucky could identify it as one of the males from the car. He breathed easier knowing that it wasn't from some back-up unit, which would mean more resource and more ammo to contend with.

 

Bucky was left with two other males and the redhead still in play. One was currently on the east fire escape, vaulting upwards, fast. The second, he could still sense in the basement below.

 

The last was scaling the tree outside the window.

 

“Go,” he mouthed to Steve, spinning him and shoving him towards the corridor.

 

He heard Steve wince at the bite of his injuries, but he ran quickly, buzzing off a fresh burst of adrenalin. Even then, Bucky knew they wouldn't have time to escape the hallway. The only hope was to create enough distance to take out the lycan before it reached Steve, and at the same time ensure they covered their flank.

 

He watched Steve almost all the way to the hall, then twisted back towards the window as the lycan swung in, gun first. A spray of bullets patterned the floor, curving up towards Bucky as he returned fire, then the lycan threw a grenade to the ground. It rolled to a stop by Bucky’s foot, pulsing, glowing the same turquoise as the UV bullets. Bucky cursed, kicked it back, and sprinted after Steve.

 

Just as the grenade ticked over, exploding into hundreds of strobes of brilliant white, Bucky turned sharply into the corridor, throwing himself back against the wall as the rays engulfed the ward, washing through the door and ambushing the doorway-shaped slip of corridor before it hit the wall opposite.

 

Protected by his position, Bucky searched for Steve in the blindingly bright light. He found him on the opposite side of the doorway, flush against the wall, mouth open in shock.

 

The force of the grenade lasted only a few seconds then dimmed to darkness, leaving an acrid smell that burnt the back of Bucky's throat.

 

Knowing the lycan would wait until the weapon burnt out completely before checking the aftermath, Bucky timed his attack so that he pivoted into the doorway as the weapon dwindled into a dusky yellow. He took out the lycan, clean and quick, as the hospital’s central alarm screamed into life.

 

It filled Bucky’s head, hands coming to his ears to block the shrill noise until he could adapt. It stunned him for a brief moment. Between the alarm and the clamor of the resulting evacuation, Bucky could no longer hear the progress of the last two hostiles _._

 

Steve was on his left, mouth opening on a shout that Bucky couldn’t hear. It was easy to follow Steve’s line of sight as he stared wide-eyed at the end of the hall where a huge, dark shape lunged towards the building, hanging mid-air as it jumped for the west window.

 

The window imploded, bursting out like bullets of shattered glass that pelted the hard floor in a hail of clinks, while the lycan launched through it, faster than the wave of glass. This one was in full wolf form, lithe and powerful and baring its teeth.

Bucky stood firm, lifting his guns, but no matter how many times he saw this, it still got him. His body would never unlearn fear. Later, Bucky would wonder what Steve thought as he took in the sight of a wolf that was easily treble the size of a regular one. What did Steve think as he saw it run the gap, ripping it up, ninety degrees to the wall and getting faster? How did Steve feel staring down the snout of a monster?

 

Or was Bucky the monster in Steve’s eyes? Bucky, who was mercilessly piling all of his bullets into the creature, backing up with quick, measured steps, reloading even quicker then emptying those bullets too.

 

He could feel Steve at his back, his erratic breaths as he stared open-mouthed. Heard him curse loudly, curse again and stumble before Bucky simply backed straight into him and pushed him towards the east stairwell.

 

Now taking a third round of bullets, the lycan continued to come at them. It was stronger than the lycans Bucky had already neutralized. If survival was the mission, Bucky wouldn't lose sleep over this one either. But Steve was the mission. And the lycan’s shining black eyes were scoped directly on him as it swallowed the ground between them.

 

Bucky stopped shooting only when the creature was right in his face, then he dodged to the side and delivered a sharp jumping kick to its flank, sending it off-line and into the wall in a crash of plasterboard and splintering wood.

 

Bucky was squeezing the triggers again until the guns were dry and the lycan was back on its feet, breaching the gap and barreling into Bucky, pounding him into the wall opposite.  

 

Finished with Bucky, it made to carry on, clambering to get to Steve. Its extended claws slashed through the air as it scrabbled to get up, nicking Bucky’s right temple as he grabbed it by the jaws — one hand to the top and the other to the bottom. Wide nostrils snorted furiously, skeletal skull thrashing side to side in an attempt to connect with Bucky’s temple.

 

It was at its most dangerous when desperate, rabid, black claws scratching and screeching on the polished concrete, but Bucky had torn his left hand up and away from his right hand before its teeth could get anywhere near him. The body jerked in Bucky’s hold, convulsing, grunting, then eventually stilling.

 

Tossing what remained of the lycan aside with a short exhale, Bucky’s metal arm clicked and whirred in protest.

 

“Steve?” he called out, turning quickly in direction of the stairwell.

 

The redhead was already there. Hand pinning Steve to the lift door, growl low in her throat.

 

Bucky didn't wait to analyze the situation any further than that. He jumped up, took the distance in two strides and grabbed the collar of Steve’s lab coat, yanking him out from underneath the lycan’s hold. He heard the material rip at the seam, but it held long enough to pull Steve into him.

 

The lycan whipped around, her face cold but human, and somehow all the more terrifying for it. More terrifying than the hulking beast Bucky’d just dispatched. In the breadth of a second, her face showed a hint of shock, then a slow, slapping smirk.

 

Blood was slicked across her black jacket, rolling in rivulets down the cream slope of her shoulder. Bucky didn’t stop to think about how many casualties she’d left scattered across the hospital in her wake. He didn’t wait for her to turn, to launch her attack. He yelled at Steve to run and steered him back to the window he’d come in through, only pausing to throw a knife at her when she started after them, sending her reeling.

 

At the window, Bucky rigged a canister of silver particles to release independently and rolled it into the hall to block the route.

 

“What are those things?” Steve yelled, but he was clearly in agreement that the answer could wait because he didn’t stop running and resisted for only a second when Bucky hooked him, dragged him out the window and pulled him down towards the ground.

 

Bucky used his extra weight to land first, taking the impact. “Stay with me,” he instructed briskly as he rolled Steve to the side. “That’ll stall her but we need to move fast.”

 

He wanted them back on their feet and out from under the parking lot spotlight above their heads before the lycan recovered and found a new route out.

 

“I'll drive,” Bucky said, low and urgent, already tensing to move when Steve’s expression made him falter.

 

He was standing on the other side of the light, eyes meeting Bucky’s in the middle. His brow was furrowed, mouth slightly open, eyes rapid on Bucky’s face under the harsh lamp. For a hot, hectic second, Bucky couldn't think of what Steve could possibly be seeing that was so distracting that he'd stall when they had a monster to escape from.

 

But then Bucky registered that he was seeing Steve through the electric-blue of his vampire eyes.

 

After a couple of hundred years of eyes that flashed blue with shock or lust or danger, Bucky had almost forgotten that there was anything supernatural about it, but they were blazing now, and his fangs were flashing under the unforgiving white floodlights.

 

Steve blinked, but other than the blowing swell of his pupils and the rapid spike in his heart rate, he showed none of the usual signs of horror.

 

“Shit,” Bucky cursed. God, between him and the lycan, Steve probably didn't know which way to run.

 

But the terror he expected to see on Steve’s face still didn't materialize, and he felt his lips part wider in surprise. Steve _saw_ him. And he didn't back away, or balk, or even really blink.

 

Steve’s eyes canted down to Bucky’s teeth one last time then calmly looked back up. _“I’ll_ drive,” he said, pulling Bucky’s sleeve to get him moving again, “You shoot.”

 

Stilling his spinning mind, Bucky followed.“Fuck,” he muttered, “Yeah, alright.”

 

They swerved into the parking lot as Bucky focused on pinpointing the lycan. “She's here,” he reported. “Can you drive stick?”

 

Steve stopped darting worried looks over his shoulder to send Bucky a very poorly timed, but incredibly effective glare over the hood of a Ford pickup.

 

Bucky laughed out his adrenalin and relief in a tiny, single sound, before veering between two parked cars. He yanked the door of a slate gray Audi, taking the lock mechanism with it, then pulled the handle of the driver's side door and hot-wired the starter motor so that when Steve dropped behind the wheel, the engine was ready.

 

Without hesitating, Steve shifted into drive and executed a tight, quick u-turn as Bucky kicked open the locked glove compartment and rifled around until he found a handgun. He ejected the magazine, checked the ammunition, and slid it back with a click.

 

“Don't stop,” Bucky ordered.

 

Steve frowned in confusion and said, “Wasn't planning on it,” just as the lycan dropped down in the path of the car.

 

She folded into a neat crouch, slowly standing with the same slick smile from earlier and Bucky felt Steve automatically stomp on the brake pedal, reaching for the handbrake and making to swerve.

 

“No,” Bucky yelled, snapping a hand out to straighten the wheel. “Don't stop.”

 

He'd just have to trust Steve to listen while he lined up the pistol out of the window, shooting as Steve careered the car towards her. The lycan took a bullet to the forehead and one to the heart, and leapt, unaffected, onto the roof of the car before flipping off the back of it.

 

“Jesus christ,” Steve hissed.

 

Bucky twisted in the seat to lean out the window, shooting at the retreating form as Steve sped through the lot. Bucky spent the bullets until she was so far away that it was pointless. She wasn't following. It didn’t make sense, but she still wasn’t following.

 

Bucky didn’t move until Steve started to slow the car, brow furrowing slightly as he checked the mirrors and filtered into the main road traffic.

 

“We clear?”

 

Bucky nodded, drawing the gun back in through the window and sliding it shut. “Head for the harbor.”

 

Steve exhaled, ragged and shaken and sounding too loud in the confines of the car.

 

“The redhead,” Bucky stared, “I need to know what she said to you.”

 

With those words it was like the last twenty four hours all come crashing back for Steve. They were close enough that Bucky could feel fear tighten Steve’s muscles like rigor mortis. His breath shortened, heart rabbiting as he remembered everything that he'd put aside while he'd focused on the mechanics of driving and instinctively assessed Bucky for injury. It all came back, every reason to panic stacking one on top of the other then landing on top of him.

 

The minutes stretched out with Bucky a quiet spectator. Steve checked the gas, shifted a little to get more comfortable and by the time he answered Bucky’s question, he'd got a handle on his breathing well enough that Bucky was no longer worried that he had no idea how to help someone through an asthma attack.

 

“Nothing,” Steve replied finally, no longer looking like he might need to suck out all the air from the cabin but clearly confused as hell.

 

In fairness, Bucky wasn't far behind. _Nothing?_ All that and she hadn't said a word. Hadn't threatened, blackmailed, disclosed even a tiny hint of motive while trying to sweeten a deal.

 

“Think. She must have said something.”

 

“Shit, nothing. Just…”

 

“Just what?” Bucky cut in sharply as Steve snapped his mouth shut.

 

“My name. She knows my name.” He turned to Bucky. “What the hell were those things?”

 

“They're lycans. But you'd know them as werewolves.” Bucky gazed out the window with a sigh. “And you, my friend, are in the middle of a war. An immortal war, waged over thousands of years.” He lifted his eyes from the spray off the road in time to see Steve’s face drain of its pearly white and rose complexion.

Good. He should be scared.

 

“What do I have to do with any of that?”

 

A couple of minutes passed quietly. Not one to offer up an answer when he didn't have one — or to share a theory when he hadn't the time to think it through — Bucky let Steve’s question hang in the air. It was bandied about by the A/C until Bucky could no longer take the ice on his teeth and jabbed the button to stop it.

 

Next to him, Steve seemed to have accepted Bucky’s silence and was steering one handed as he tugged his bloodied white medical coat off. Bucky didn't think anything of it until he recognized the band shirt underneath.

 

Smirking, he plucked at the material just over Steve’s belly button. “Am I gonna get that back at any point?”

 

Depositing the coat on the rear seat, Steve slid his eyes to Bucky for just long enough to show that he'd heard but that he had no intention of answering. It might have stung if it weren't obvious that Steve was blushing furiously.

 

“So,” Steve said, frowning his blush away, “when I said ‘mafia’ and you said ‘something like that,’ what you actually meant was, nothing like that.”

 

“No,” Bucky responded, irritation catching, “I meant, exactly like that.”

 

“Vampire would have been more accurate,” Steve pointed out. His eyes flicked over to watch Bucky slide all the air vents shut on his side of the console.

 

Bucky checked the wing mirror and over his shoulder, before conceding, “Yeah.” And because it would wind Steve up, added, “Something like that,” and smiled when he heard Steve’s hands throttle the top of the steering wheel.

 

The tarmac rumbled under the tires as Bucky’s gaze lingered long enough to see Steve double-take the rear-view mirror a minute later.

 

Bucky tensed as Steve purposely slowed the car to eighty. “What is it?”

 

“Unmarked police car.”

 

Bucky relaxed. “They're not after us.”

 

“Maybe not, but they'll pull us over if we're speeding,” Steve countered, eyes sliding to Bucky. His glasses were lost or smashed, allowing the moonlight tripping through the windshield to shape crescents of platinum in his eyes. He took a moment, pursing his mouth like he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to give voice to his next thought, but he did it anyway. “So, you _are_ a vampire then?”

 

He sounded just shy of certain, looking for confirmation, but of course Bucky picked up on the little bit of doubt and couldn't keep his mouth shut. “Is that a genuine question? The fangs didn't make it obvious?”

 

An empty laugh that sounded anything but a laugh left Steve’s lips. It didn't stop him clarifying, “Vampires? And werewolves?”

 

Bucky looked to the roof of the car with a loud, exasperated inhale even though he'd probably react the same in Steve's position. The vast majority of his life ran like a Ridley Scott horror. Pensive and dark and dripping with an eerie, hand-wringing soundtrack. Steve did a good job of making him forget that until now the guy had lived a very different life.

 

Steve sent a bashful look out the window, but when he leveled Bucky with a look and snapped back a retort it was apparent that a bit of embarrassment wasn’t going to stop him. “You’ve just told me that a children’s nightmare is real. Can I get a bit of slack here?”

 

Bucky should have said no, but he just blinked and looked away.

 

The road surface was old and pitted with potholes. It made a constant and calming backing noise as he replayed the night from the point the mercedes had arrived to the bizarre moment the lycan woman backed off with a smug smirk that set off warning bells against the wet smacking cycle of tires underneath them.

 

So far there was nothing to suggest she'd gotten what she wanted. She'd stalked Steve from subway to hospital, spoke nothing but his name, then happily watched his escape. It didn't take a genius to work out that the severed ends of those ropes didn't meet.

 

Bucky didn't like it, but Steve was bleeding, making Bucky's brain foggy and his nerves buzz, and he couldn't make sense of the lycan or their too-easy getaway.

 

In the rush after a close call and a win, Bucky was always keyed up, even without adding the lure of blood to the mix. That was the excuse he used when his eyes fell over Steve’s hair, soft and picture perfect even after a scuffle, and felt the urgent desire to slide his hand into it, grab a handful and mess it the hell up.

 

He snapped his eyes away, knowing that his expression must have been obvious even in the muted yellow-tinted light pushing out of the illuminated dash.

 

“Swap seats,” he demanded of Steve by way of distraction.

 

Steve side-eyed him. “Put your seatbelt on,” is all he said before pushing his fingers through his hair and making sections stand on end. Bucky should have been happy that he was no longer tempted to do it himself, but it just made Steve look like he'd tumbled out of bed after a good fuck.

 

Bucky smirked, and smirked harder when Steve frowned at him. Bucky was starting to like him, despite his irritating tendency to fight Bucky on everything, or maybe even because of it. There was something about his take-no-shit attitude, just polite enough that he couldn't be considered a complete asshole, and confident enough to be attractive.

 

Still smirking, Bucky settled back in his seat. If he'd really wanted to drive he would have yanked at the seat adjuster, slid Steve away from the wheel and thrown his weight over the console to take the wheel. The fact that the action would have had him sitting in Steve's lap was a questionable detail. But he didn't really want to drive and Steve's virtue was safe.

 

“Are you hurt?” Bucky asked quietly into the silence.

 

Steve took his eyes off the road to stare at him, but he blinked out his surprise a moment later. “Yeah. Pretty much everywhere.” Before Bucky could respond, Steve changed the subject. “The werewolves… they kill vampires?”

 

Streetlamps flooded the car and just as quickly cast it in shade.

 

“Given half the chance,” Bucky begrudged.

 

“And humans?”

 

Bucky flicked his eyes to Steve’s firm grip on the stick as he shifted up. The second question had come quick, as though Steve wasn't prepared to dwell too much on a monster death toll. If Bucky thought back to a wind-battered house perched on a cliff, he'd absolutely agree.

 

_Do lycans kill humans?_

 

Bucky couldn't stop his cold laugh at the absurdity of the question. The sound seemed to dart straight into Steve's nerves if his wince was anything to go by, but he was still staring Bucky down as best he could out of the corner of his eye. His driving didn't suffer for it either, Bucky observed dryly. The hunk of metal that Bucky had commandeered was being controlled attractively smoothly and with no lycans to distract him, Bucky was suffering enough for everyone.

 

“Well?” Steve prompted.

 

Oh yeah, humans. “Whenever they're given the chance,” Bucky answered in a voice that might have been a whisper if it weren't dark and edged like twisted metal.

 

He had to fight a wince of his own at that, and pretend he didn't know why. Or that it had anything to do with a cliff-top house.

 

Instead he sagged in the seat, rubbing the back of his head against the rest and stretching out. Steve’s eyes lingered briefly on the splay of Bucky’s legs and his hands tightened on the wheel.

 

Bucky raised his eyebrow.

 

Steve almost looked like he was pursing his lips on a smile. “What's in the direction of the harbor?”

 

“My place. I need to get you back to the mansion and work out why the lycans want you so much.”

 

“The mansion,” Steve muttered to himself, taking off Bucky’s casual tone and making a mockery of it. “No big deal.”

 

Bucky regarded him and how his _completely done with this shit_ scowl was somehow more appealing than most people’s smiles.

 

Over the last few minutes, Steve had relaxed back into the leather, pulse knocking a steady, calming beat in Bucky’s ears until he started to feel that same sort of stillness he'd felt with Steve at his bedroom window. It could almost be a lazy Sunday afternoon drive, taking turns and not knowing why, a smile and a breeze and hazy sunshine.

 

It took a couple of minutes, but eventually Steve started to fidget under Bucky’s scrutiny. “What are you looking at?”

 

Shrugging, Bucky looked out the window to where it wasn't Sunday, or sunny. “A man that tackles a supernatural and only asks for aspirin.”

 

“I didn’t know he wasn’t human,” Steve sighed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m not stupid. I would have run.” He paused. “Thank you for… then. And for tonight. But I’m fine on my own. I don’t need your help.”

 

“That’s good because I wasn't offering it,” Bucky rebutted. He didn't care to examine whether he meant it or not. When Steve tensed next to him, he sighed. “Accepting help doesn't mean you need it, you know. It doesn't mean I think you need it.”

 

Probably irked, maybe embarrassed, almost certainly reckless, Steve tore the Audi around the next corner, fast. It wasn't clear whether the drift of the back end was entirely intentional, but Bucky was more alert to the way his eyes were efficiently reading the road lines in the deep sea dark. It seemed unlikely the ophthalmology reports in his file were inaccurate, but Bucky was sure that Steve was seeing the curbs and cambers perfectly.

 

It took a deliberate jerk of the steering wheel to stop Bucky analyzing that one. If it weren't for everything enhanced about him, he might have ended up crushed against the door then rebounding into the gear shift.

 

He inhaled sharply, involuntarily drawing in a lungful of Steve’s scent, the sweet musk of it heavy in his nose. On the seat, Bucky’s fingers surreptitiously gripped the leather until he could convince his spine to unknot.

 

“What's your problem?”

 

“Seat. Belt,” Steve gritted out. In the next breath, he added, “And quit looking at me like that.”

 

“Tetchy.”

 

“Do you pay Clint to be your friend?”

 

“I kill him dinner occasionally.”

 

Steve’s silence had Bucky tucking his tongue in his cheek to keep from smiling.

 

In the same moment, Bucky heard the hard acceleration of an oncoming car.

 

He lunged for the wheel too late. The car smashed into the passenger-side door like a battering ram, hurtling them off the road. There was no time to correct, and the brakes locked so that the car veered into an uncontrollable skid.

 

The car’s grill was already ramming the fence, tires catching on torn wire and tossing them into a roll.

 

The inky dark water of the harbor was the last thing Bucky saw before his head cracked the windshield.


	4. IV: Mansion

**IV: Mansion**

 

 _“Choices were easy to make until you realized how long life could be.”_ — Emily Straub, Modern Lovers

 

~

Bucky’s joints loosened as he readied himself to fire, limbs sinking into the comfort of muscle memory. The sound of bullets flying true and hitting home soothed his brain which too often felt like it was shuddering inside his skull.

 

He liked the stillness, the way it wiped his mind and channeled his skill and cold rage. After he was made a death dealer and given free reign of the armory, he'd come to this room to better himself and lose himself in equal measure. Every moment of stress and grief had been taken out on these targets. Mourning his family, losing his first soldier, failing Pierce — a well executed shot took him away from it all. An ironic, macabre refuge from pain.

 

Now, as ever, it felt good to let his body take over, his mind free to conduct calm guitar riffs that didn’t quite push out the low burr of Steve’s voice. Like the tail end of an adrenalin high where the only decision was to go all in or wait for the drop, Bucky was torn between chasing the sound and shutting it down.

 

Since waking up alone on the drenched silt, hair sticky with drying blood, he hadn't had the energy to stop it. The quiet echo of Steve’s voice had been with him when he’d walked back from the harbor, followed him through the mansion and took him to find solace in the shooting range. Steve, who was confrontational but kind, serious but snarky. Steve, who was warm and whose blood ran hotter when the chill of Bucky’s skin tested the boundaries of his atmosphere.

 

Bucky was hurling a knife at the target and simultaneously starting in on a new round of ammo when the door to the training room slid open with a loud hiss.

 

Over the rattle of bullets, Bucky heard Clint call out, “Here again?”

 

Slowing his rate of fire but not looking away from the target, Bucky tried for a flippant answer. “Where else would I be?” The result was a little bleaker than he would have liked, but in the process of reloading, he forgot to wince.

 

“Death dealers,” Clint intoned, as though those two words explained it all.

 

Bucky hummed in agreement even though his attention was elsewhere. All he could see was red hair in place of the bullseye.

 

Clint huffed a little laugh. “You love it.”

 

Bucky squeezed the trigger. Well, yes and no — _live and breathe it_ would be more accurate. It was the in-between jobs that sucked. The waiting that reminded him that this was all he did and all he was good for. But revenge was an excellent motivator, and there had always been plenty to avenge.

 

His chest twinged and he lowered the gun. “You know you're welcome anytime you want to join us.”

 

“‘Us,’” Clint scoffed, “They bring you in when they can't get shit done themselves. Is there really any point in the rest of them.”

 

“They get me where I need to be,” Bucky grinned, but immediately dropped the joke and continued seriously to say, “They're good soldiers. The best. When you finish your hippie gap year, you should join us.”

 

“Heeey,” Clint protested as though his reputation was being slandered, a slight on his honor. “I'm on hiatus. Like the Foo Fighters.”

 

“Let me know when you get bored with that. You and your organic hemp quiver are welcome to join us.”

 

“Not that you deserve to know this now, but we traced the lycan rounds,” Clint told him, beckoning him over with a lazy wave. “Stalk your way over here and look at this.”

 

“That was quick.”

 

“Easy one to trace.” Clint paused to throw Bucky a strangely sweet look of modesty. “Or so I'm told,” he shrugged. He turned in his seat and took his little smirk with him. The screen of his laptop showed the UV bullet deconstructed for analysis. “This was of the ‘trace back to the source and you find your guy’ variety.”

 

“Or girl.”

 

“Well yeah. But in this case, it's a guy. And an infamous one. Obadiah Stane.”

 

Bucky took the information and let it sink in. _Stane_. The name was notorious, checkered and accountable to almost every kind of misdemeanor. And now guilty of much more besides. “A vampire selling out his own kind.”

 

“Looks that way. He’s met with different lycans at three separate meetings in as many months. Latest being last Tuesday. Six payment transfers into the same Swiss bank account, a couple the day after each meet up. He's manufacturing and they’re buying.”

 

Clint got up from the table and took a bow and quiver from his weapons locker.

 

Bucky was still thinking about how Stane might know more than just the lycans’ buying pattern when Clint loosed an arrow and turned to Bucky before it hit the centre of he target. “I'm guessing this isn't just about UV rounds.”

 

The ensuing silence told Bucky that Clint had no intention of calling him out directly, but it was pretty obvious that he was hoping Stane might know something about the lycans’ obsession with Steve.

 

“Where’d he go anyhow?” Clint asked along the line of a new arrow. “Can't have gone far.”

 

Even if he wasn't talking about Steve, which he was if the too-casual eyebrow raise was anything to go by, Bucky’s mind was running a one-man backing track with Steve’s name written all over it.

 

“I'm not chasing him around Budapest,” Bucky asserted, despite being sorely tempted to do just that. The frustrated _harrumph_ he made, while far from professional, pretty much summed up his mood. That he was also a couple of millimeters off target on his next shot added insult to injury. “Steve Rogers is going to be the death of me, I can tell.”

 

Releasing his last arrow, Clint watched it thump into the centre of the target with the rest of the quiver. “I’ll tell your story,” he vowed.

 

“Embellish it, would you?”

 

“Sure. But you’ve got to stop doing that,” he said, rolling his shoulders out.

 

“Beating your score?”

 

Clint pulled a face. “For that to happen you'd actually have to beat my score.” Bucky went to grumble, and rightly so — the share of that spoil was pretty evenly shared between them if they were both being honest, which neither ever were — but Clint was grousing again. “I meant you need to stop saying his full name like he's famous.”

 

Bucky stilled awkwardly. “Just making it clear which Steve we’re talking about.”

 

“We don't know any other Steves,” Clint pointed out helpfully.

 

Bucky resisted the urge to fidget, gesturing to Clint’s new set of arrow heads instead. “Those silver nitrate?”

 

“Yeah,” Clint squinted, smile stuck. “Liquid silver with a casing of solid change-the-subject.”

 

Bucky snapped a look at him, a warning, but his lips were quirking at the jibe despite the heat on his cheeks and across the back of his neck. “Fuck. Off.”

 

“Steve Rogers,” Clint sighed, amused and at the same time, serious. “I hope you know what you're doing.”

 

In a moment of weakness for Clint’s eyes only, Bucky admitted, “I have no idea what I'm doing.”

 

Clint made a face. “You about to confess that you're thinking with your dick, Barnes? You know I hate that.”

 

“Of course not,” Bucky replied in a crisp tone that teetered towards prudish. He winced.

 

Clint hummed, unconvinced. “Well, it ain't your heart. I know for a fact that particular muscle is caged in rock. And probably ice. Maybe reinforced steel too." He tipped his head in exaggerated consideration. “Or maybe I'm talking about your dick after all.”

 

“Clint.” It was meant to be cautionary, but it sounded like the tired sigh it was.

 

Clint closed his mouth on whatever retort he'd been planning when the sound of the door broke their bubble of trust. Bucky nodded as two death dealers walked past, kept it tight and succinct so as not to invite conversation.

 

“They lycans have come out of hiding for him,” Clint said quietly when the door to the simulator on the opposite side of the gallery shut and they were alone again. “He's got something they want.”

 

“Well it sure as shit ain’t charm.”

 

“My ma would have called him spirited.”

 

“Then your ma would have been generous.”

 

Somewhere between Steve’s stoic eyes reflecting glassy fear under underground lights, and his addictive laugh, hard to earn and even harder to forget, Bucky had realized two things. One was that Bucky had an all consuming desire to prove himself to Steve. Wanted to be liked by him, even. And second, that he was going to have to work pretty damn hard to do it.

 

The door rushed open again, making them pause.

 

Lorraine appeared around the barrier and stood watching them for a half minute while nobody said a word. Bucky watched her out of the corner of his eye as he re-holstered his weapons.

 

“Why is she smiling like that?” Clint said none too quietly to Bucky. The silent stand-off continued. “Is there any chance she's here to find somebody else?”

 

“Dude,” Bucky said, “Your optimism is admirable.”

 

Lorraine rolled her eyes. “I need your drink order for the party this afternoon.”

 

Bucky tensed. “I'm not going.”

 

“Brock said you'd say that. He also said to put you down for whiskey because you wouldn't dare miss another one.”

 

Bucky looked at her balefully.

 

“Suit yourself,” she said lightly. “But there will be people there that Pierce would want you to meet.”

 

And, yeah, that kind of forced a thumb in an open wound. Mansion parties were all about networking, connections and charming people that needed to be charmed. It was one of the few things Pierce had asked of Bucky before he went into hibernation.

 

“Pierce wouldn't like it if he found out you had the opportunity and didn't take it.” She paused deliberately. “You know he'd be disappointed.”

 

Bucky flinched.

 

Lorraine smirked. “Whiskey neat it is.”

 

“And I'll be thirsty the entire afternoon,” Clint called after her as she left without once looking at him. “Six months away and now I have to buy my own damn drinks.”

 

Bucky frowned, skin crawling at Lorraine’s parting shot. “Why do you care anyway? Thought you were headed to Romania."

 

“Thought you needed me to get Rumlow off your case?” Clint retorted. He sounded surprised that Bucky was even questioning it. “Tell me that's still the plan because I’ve got some solid ideas. They start amateur _—_ you know, grease the stairs and shout fire _—_ but they get better from there.”

 

Bucky shook his head slightly. “I need your help with something else.”

 

“How much effort does it involve?”

 

Bucky smiled because that was a yes. He feigned consideration. “To work that out I might need to carefully dissect Montecarlo and the time you—”

 

“Yeah, alright,” Clint cut in quickly, immediately seeing an argument lost. “What do you need?”

 

~

 

The ice hadn’t even melted in Bucky’s first treble bourbon when the perimeter alarm was tripped.

 

His phone buzzed and each of the six death dealers he was standing with went for their pockets. Bucky was the only one that seemed pleased. The rest were scowling. One was grinding his teeth so loudly Bucky’s ears burned.

 

“I'll take this,” Bucky muttered just to get away.

 

There was a collective sigh of relief to be heard, a few different takes on, _‘if you're sure...’_ tumbled into each other, then not a beat later the soldiers snapped back to their glasses. Bucky was already halfway out the door anyway.

 

Compared to most parties of late, the ones Bucky skirted as far as the shackles of rank and duty would allow, this was a polite affair. A tinkling champagne flute, polite to the point of impolite affair. Seating plans and speeches and boredom.

 

The room was full of people saying pretty things they didn’t mean. They laughed and simpered on cue, gleaming like twenty four carat and hiding fool's gold hearts. Around them, varnished floorboards shone and lofty ceilings sucked up the air. In protest, a mural swept the walls with a sad story. It wrapped the room in all its woes, but for the most part, was ignored.

 

Bucky pushed his glass into the nearest empty hand, which happened to belong to a young guy who looked like he really needed it. Bucky had endured enough politically charged dinner conversations with imperious coven members to sympathize. Some of them would let their hands creep. They weren't even the worst, but those were the memories of coven parties that made Bucky’s stomach turn with nausea.

 

Back then he hadn't had enough power to put them in their place, and sometimes Pierce had needed him to encourage it. Most of the time he'd been able to extract himself, pull out one of his sweetheart smiles and sway in the direction of the bar, never to be found again.

 

Here and now, part of him wanted to pull the boy aside and let him know that until the day came when he could rip out ribcages without consequence, a few judiciously shuffled place cards could get you a lit fuse and a petty but worthwhile revenge. Bucky and Clint had thrown napalm on many a family dispute that way. Sworn enemies dining at the same table never ended well and it was hard to harass people with wandering hands when you no longer had hands.

 

Heading towards the main stairwell, Bucky scanned the ballroom for Clint. He hadn't seen him since they parted ways in the training room with a nod and an offhand instruction from Clint that Bucky should think about getting his shit together. Bucky had correctly interpreted this as, _Get some rest. The party starts in an hour and you'll need your best game face if you want Rumlow to believe you don't give a shit about all this._

 

Bucky hadn't slept. He rarely did. Time had stretched out before and after him, spinning in circles. For the most part, he’d tried to ignore the t-shirt crumpled under his dresser, the memory of sunlight kissing long lashes, and the desire that threaded through his veins and coiled low in his belly despite his best efforts to will it away. His hand had hovered on its way down, caught in freeze frame between his slowly filling cock and guiltless restraint.

 

If he could have switched off, he would have. In the end, he concentrated on the rain. The fat drops that pelted his window, the ones that rushed through the trees, the ones that hammered the cobbles outside the wrought iron mansion gates, and how the heavens pounded the roofs of the houses a mile into town.

 

When he was human, rain was just a drumming on the stable roof of a long forgotten childhood home. A spray off the sea and up over the cliffs. Now there were layers, depth. A single rainstorm could sound so different.

 

He'd finally pushed Steve Rogers out of his mind with a circuit of window pane, leaves, cobbles and roofs. Then he’d let the layers merge together before starting all over again.

 

It was a pretty poor metaphor, but Bucky couldn’t help thinking of how his ears could make space contract so easily, but in reality it spread so wide. He couldn't help but think of the fallacy of distance.

 

Meters and miles, and thin, thin lines.

 

~

 

“Christ,” someone was cursing as Bucky walked into the surveillance room.

 

“Who's been messing with my dogs?” another voice growled.

 

The scene in front of Bucky was chaotic at best, and he immediately knew there wasn't a genuine threat. Crisis management didn't look like three grown vampires fighting over guard dogs.

 

“Well someone let them out.”

 

“Who cares. Let's just tether them back up and get back to drinking.”

 

Bucky sighed deeply, disappointed that the distraction wouldn't keep him from the party for as long as he might have liked.

 

Glancing around, he saw Wanda standing on the sidelines looking unimpressed. Her arms were folded and she was snapping the nails of her thumb and forefinger against each other. It looked like a gesture of irritation, but Bucky soon realized that she was using the noise to attract his attention.

 

As soon as Bucky’s eyes were on her, she slowly backed out of the room and into the smaller office next door without looking at him. When Bucky stepped into the room after her, he found her typing away on a keyboard, perpetually chipped nail varnish flashing a deep purple as she typed quickly.

 

The blank monitor flickered to a grainy image from one of the external security cameras.

 

“Look,” she instructed. “I don't think it was the dogs that tripped the alarm.”

 

Over Wanda’s shoulder, Bucky watched a slim figure crawl under the second fence on the south side of the mansion. Despite the distortion it was clearly Steve squirming under the wire, pulling himself up and moving like a man who’d never had fractured ribs or a broken collarbone in his life, let alone a few hours ago. Bucky filed the observation away to think about later, along with Steve’s seemingly 20/20 vision that contradicted credible medical opinion.

 

How he'd managed to get this far into the compound was baffling. As if reading Bucky’s mind, Wanda quietly suggested, “Maybe he set the dogs loose as a distraction?” She shrugged a little, indicating to the room next door where they could still hear bickering. “Simple but apparently effective.”

 

“Apparently,” Bucky concurred wryly. “Is anyone else seeing this?”

 

“Not that I know of. There's nothing to stop them looking at this feed, but you saw them fighting over a pack of dogs. Ironically enough.” She turned as Steve stumbled to his feet, darting hurried looks over his shoulder and making himself as small as possible. “Is he the one the lycans are after?”

 

Bucky nodded in answer, leaning closer to the screen which clicked to another view as Steve moved out of range and closer to the intercom.

 

Looking directly into the camera, Steve appeared to swallow hard. “Bucky? Bucky if you’re there, I think I need your help.” His voice was tinny through the audio but Bucky heard the plea.

 

“I need to get him out of here.” He didn't stop to think about what he was saying. And Wanda didn't question him.

 

“T’Challa’s closest,” she advised him, reaching for her phone.

 

Sure enough, Bucky’s phone vibrated with a message — a mugshot of Steve with an impressive glower — just as he was thumbing off the lock.

 

One word accompanied the image. _Yours?_

 

 _On my way_ , Bucky typed back. _Contain him._

 

“Did you know about the lycan sightings today?” Wanda paused to take in Bucky’s surprise. “Didn't think so. There were two in the space of three hours. Rumlow took a small team out himself.”

 

Bucky nodded. Steve was the link, he was sure of it. The reason the lycans were coming out of hiding and the root cause of this dramatic increase in kill tempo.

 

Sensing a shadow at his back, Bucky looked around to find the boy from the party hovering uncomfortably in the doorway. There was no sign of the whiskey tumbler, only a high flush on his cheeks which Bucky took to mean that he'd either drunk it or rushed here. Or both.

 

“Oh, hey.” The boy smiled, barreling through the greeting, nervous but cheerful. “What are you guys doing here? I mean… I didn't mean— I can leave if you want?”

 

The boy’s voice worked up and over vowels and consonants, tripping and stalling endearingly and smiling even more for it. Bucky was starting to regret not rescuing him from the old, arrogant, and most likely inappropriate elder who'd trapped him.

 

“Peter?” Wanda said around Bucky’s shoulder. “Why aren't you at the party?”

 

“I have to check the system.” He pointed at the screens behind Bucky. “It’s my job. I get called in if the alarm’s still going after five minutes. You know, in case there’s a fault. Emergency procedure. Guess someone forgot to reset it.” Peter shrugged with the kind of crooked smile that suggested he wasn't the slightest bit annoyed at having to sort out someone else's incompetence.

 

Bucky relaxed. The boy was harmless, that much he could tell, and kind. Possibly too kind. The thought put a metallic aftertaste in Bucky’s mouth.

 

“I know it was just the dobermans, but I should check the feeds and reset the system.”

 

“I've got this,” Bucky assured him, then when the boy just looked disappointed, added, “You don't have to go back in there. If anyone asks, I'll say you dealt with the breach.”

 

“Really?” Peter looked taken aback. “Thanks,” he breathed out through a grateful smile.

 

Not knowing how to handle the unwarranted gratitude, Bucky fidgeted, muttered, “Honestly, it's fine,” and made a mental note that when the kid had moved up the chain just enough to get away with murder, he'd tell him all the places a knife hurt the most.

 

“What about the footage?” Wanda asked, eyes back on Bucky.

 

She was right. They'd have to do something. Once the keeper had rounded up the hounds, he'd be looking for the culprit.

 

“Peter, can you cut the feed from the garage?” Peter nodded eagerly. “Run a circuit of footage from an hour ago and play it on a loop?”

 

Peter shrugged in happy agreement. “Yeah. I mean, sure, that's easy."

 

~

 

Turning into the compound, Bucky took in T’Challa’s coolly watchful look and how opposite him, Steve seemed determined not to break it. They continued to face off through the filtered and reinforced glass, not noticing Bucky’s approach until Clint hopped down from the mezzanine and snorted in amusement.

 

His eyes flicked from Steve, who had nothing but the clothes he was standing in and the door that T’Challa hadn't seen fit to open for him.

 

“Only the warmest of welcomes here at Hotel Transylvania,” Clint snarked under his breath.

 

“It's almost like we've got something to hide,” Wanda countered with a crooked smile.

 

Clint shrugged and turned back to Bucky. “Did you sleep?”

 

“Nope. Came close though.”

 

“Bucky...”

 

Sighing, Bucky looked at Clint hard. “Don't start,” he said, putting a hand on Clint’s arm to take the edge off his tone.

 

Meanwhile, Steve was looking up at T’Challa with a ferocity Bucky wasn't sure he would have challenged himself. He would — of course he would — but Bucky had seen the world and it wouldn't be dramatic to think that the force of that look could level a small nation.

 

Bucky tried not to look smitten when he indicated to the door. “He's good. Let him through.”

 

Dark eyes flicked over his face, but T’Challa put his hand to the pad for scanning. A second later, the door slipped sideways and Steve walked through with a final look, bringing with him a blast of hot summer air that skipped happily over Bucky’s skin.

 

Released from T’Challa’s stony-faced guardianship, Steve finally registered Bucky in the room. His gaze fluttered up and over Bucky’s tailored suit and darted away, quick as anything. Bucky’s enhanced senses noted the hitch in Steve’s breath, the sudden acceleration of his pulse, and Bucky knew it wasn't fair but he couldn't tune it out even if he wanted to.

 

A supreme lapse in judgment had him leveling the playing field by returning the gaze. If Steve could throw his arms wide and invite trouble, then why the hell couldn't Bucky?

 

He was rolling his lip between his teeth when he noticed Clint’s eyes raking over him then Steve, and Bucky had to fight the urge to check the distance between them. Clint didn't miss much and Bucky already felt oddly guilty.

 

Avoiding Clint’s tiny smile, Bucky cleared his throat and regarded Steve, who was now not quite meeting his eyes.

 

“Making friends I see,” Bucky remarked, cocking his head at T’Challa.

 

Steve folded his arms across his chest. “Yep. Best of pals.”

 

In the background, T’Challa blinked slowly.

 

Behind Steve’s back, Clint mimed something to the tune of a noose around his neck. The tiniest quirk flashed at the corner of T’Challa’s mouth. It disappeared so promptly that Bucky started to wonder if he'd actually seen it at all.

 

“Thanks for seeing me,” Steve was saying.

 

He sounded even better than Bucky remembered, which was quite the achievement. Bucky stood motionless, preferring to imagine that Steve put that deep rasp into his voice on purpose and that it wasn't just naturally and specifically engineered to push all of the buttons he never knew he had.

 

“He needs to brush up on his hospitality skills, ” Steve spoke again, still miffed.

 

“He can hear you,” Bucky told him.

 

“Well, I wasn't whispering.”

 

Bucky turned before Steve could see an uncontrollable smile hijack his face. Caching the smile and the memory away for later, Bucky concentrated on the way Steve’s eyes were dark with exhaustion. Something had happened — there was no other reason he’d turn up on the doorstep of a vampire coven with nothing but the same clothes he'd worn yesterday.

 

“What happened?”

 

Steve sighed. “I didn’t see who hit us, but there was someone there when I got back to my apartment.”

 

“Did they see you?” Bucky asked, more urgent this time.

 

“No,” Steve answered, sounding sure.

 

Bucky’s mouth was opening on another question, but Steve suddenly winced, hands coming up to push two fingers into his temples like he was trying to force out a throbbing pain. He screwed his eyes shut like his vision was sparking.

 

Wanda was the one to steady him when he stumbled forwards. She didn’t let go even when he rebalanced, her hand a tight, white grip on Steve’s upper arm. Her eyes were trained on the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

 

“What’s this?” she demanded in a low, urgent voice, pulling Steve's t-shirt down and off his shoulder.

 

Following Wanda’s line of sight, Bucky saw the rip of flesh and a sprawling blood stain.

 

Steve shivered when Bucky turned to him with an intensity he couldn't keep from his face. “How did you get this?”

 

“The woman at the hospital. She bit me.”

 

Something like a cold sweat crawled its way down Bucky’s back. He looked back at the wound, where spindly trails of black traced the lines of blue veins. It could have been an effect of the lycan virus — something new they hadn't seen — but Bucky knew it wasn't. His eyes were stuck on the eight strands of black radiating from the bite. A Black Widow bite.

 

Bucky fisted Steve’s shirt, blinking out the memory of the redhead in the hospital ward, only to see scarlet spots and lines like spider legs behind his eyelids.

 

“Romanoff.”

 

“That’s impossible,” Clint breathed.

 

“It's her mark.”

 

“But she's dead, Bucky. She's been dead for years.”

 

Bucky’s body tensed, thinking of the stories they'd all heard, the myths and the legends, and the anecdotal evidence of one Brock Rumlow. “Says who?”

 

Clint’s face darkened. “Shit.”

 

Bucky felt cored out, shock belting him with all the speed of a bullet train. The ground seemed to slip under his shoes — the sand and dirt that had started shifting the night Steve first appeared and threw himself into a world he had no place in.

 

He took a step back, a conscious step away from Steve, who looked confused and undeniably nervous under the shadow of disgust on Bucky’s face.

 

_He's been bitten._

 

“How didn't I notice?” Bucky wondered despite knowing perfectly well the answer was simple: Steve was a walking distraction and Bucky didn't see half of what he should when he was near.

 

Of course, Bucky barely acknowledged the thought to himself, let alone reveal it to everyone else. Least of all because he absolutely didn't want to see Clint’s mime for that.

 

It seemed far safer to divert some of the blame onto Steve. “Why didn't you say anything?!”

 

“It didn't seem important.”

 

“Oh for fuck’s sa—”

 

“What are your symptoms?” Wanda interrupted quickly.

 

“I keep dreaming,” Steve told her, slowly simmering down from where he'd been squaring his shoulders at Bucky’s irritation. “They don’t stop when I’m awake. It’s like I’m hallucinating.”

 

“You’re not hallucinating,” Clint said, eyes moving to Bucky with a meaningful look. “You’re remembering.”

 

“I've never been to the places I see.” His face blanched a waxy white, a stoic resignation laced through his confusion laden voice. “These aren't my memories.”

 

“You've been bitten by a lycan,” Wanda explained, gentling him through the answer even though there wasn't much gentling to be done, “the memories are hers.”

 

Steve clenched his teeth. “I feel like I’m losing my damn mind.”

 

“You're lucky you're not dead already,” Bucky threw in for levity’s sake. “Normally people die within minutes of being bitten by an immortal.”

 

Steve looked at him like he already knew the answer to the question he was going to ask next. “What's going to happen?”

 

“The venom will poison your blood. If the bite doesn't kill you by the next full moon then you'll become a lycan,” Bucky said unapologetically.

 

On reflection, he could have wrapped that declaration a little more carefully, sanded down some of those splintered edges. He saw Steve’s eyes grow distant and felt the urge to tug him back, but it was a little late and there was no way of making this better.

 

If anyone else in the coven knew about this, Steve would be killed, and Bucky would be the one expected to kill him. Bucky himself could legitimately be executed for not terminating a lycan on sight. There were only two viable ways of dealing with Steve now: take him out or take him away. Bucky made the decision to look for a vacant safe house in the next breath, and the speed with which he made the choice was just another one of those things he didn't like to look at too closely.

 

When he told Clint and Wanda his decision, Wanda blinked at him.

 

“He’s a lycan,” she said blandly, in a way that said, _yes I know we've covered all this but I'm not sure we shouldn't cover it all over again_. Her concern speed-skated around the room when she slowly asked, “Clint can I talk to you for a minute?”

 

Bucky didn’t begrudge her the concern. If he was discovered helping a lycan, even with the intention of using him to find and kill a whole clan of lycans, Wanda and Clint would be culpable too.

 

Bucky watched them walk to the side of the room, bending their heads close in hurried discussion. Turning away, he noticed Steve take in his resolute expression. He must have misread it because he tensed as Bucky gestured for him to follow in the direction of the key safe.

 

“You going to kill me?”

 

“I can’t,” Bucky replied coolly.

 

There was tiny hint of relief in Steve’s quiet exhalation but also morbid amusement. “I think you’re selling yourself a little short.”

 

Bucky’s lips curled, pride fluttering a little. “I can’t,” he corrected slowly, “because I need you alive.”

 

Steve nodded, face unreadable. “Just as well I didn’t get caught breaking through your fence then.”

 

“Speaking of which, I’m guessing those ribs are healed already,” Bucky returned, remembering Steve squeezing under the wire.

 

“Is that normal?”

 

Bucky shrugged. “No idea. I don't usually wonder how well lycans will heal while I’m busy breaking them.”

 

He felt torn between victory and regret when Steve’s spine tightened.

 

“What are my chances of surviving this?”

 

Bucky sighed. “In theory, your body won’t be physically strong or stable enough.”

Steve stalled, eyes snapping up at Bucky and scowling like he’d heard that one before. “Excuse me?” he demanded sharply.

“I said in theory,” Bucky reminded him.

 

At that moment Clint walked up to them, slipping his phone into his back pocket. Bucky didn’t have time to wonder about the upshot of his and Wanda’s conversation before Clint was saying, “I got two guys lined up from security to watch him.”

 

Bucky’s eyes tracked back to where Steve was eyeing up an E Type Jag. “Who?”

 

“Riley.”

 

“And?”

 

Casually, too casually, Clint answered, “Just Sam.”

 

“No thank you,” Bucky clipped coldly.

 

Clint leveled him a look. “Come on, man. You want to find out what's going on with Romanoff then this is your best chance.” He looked away when Bucky’s jaw ticked. “But if you’d rather some nervy new recruit with your favorite lycan, be my guest.”

 

Sometimes there were gaping holes in Clint’s logic. Sometimes he made perfect sense in the way Bucky hated most.

 

“Fine,” he agreed roughly before softening his tone to ask, “Do you think I got a shot at this?”

 

“Maybe,” Clint sighed. “Most wouldn't touch those odds. But you're not them are you?”

 

“How hard would it be to convince you to agree that it's worth it?”

 

“Sometimes I'm not sure you know me.”

 

With a grateful smile, Bucky took two backpacks and an extra gun from Wanda’s hands. “Ready?” he asked Steve.

 

In front of him, Steve’s jaw worked but he drew in a steadying breath and took one of the bags from Bucky’s hand like he had a point to prove. “Yeah.”

 

Something had happened to put that grit in Steve’s gut. It would pay Bucky to find out what, or how resilient it was, because he had a feeling that they'd all need it.

 

The lycans were extinct; Romanoff was dead.

 

That was the party line. It was also a lie.


	5. V: Safe House

**V: Safe House**

 

The day ended with more rain. Waving, heavy cascades of it.

 

Bucky and Steve spent the short car journey to the safe house in the hollowed anticipation of its drumming silence, both refusing to mutter more than a breath, and both relieved to arrive at their destination even if they'd have preferred to be holed up out of the reach of the literal torrents of water that met them as they opened their doors.

 

On the hop from the car to the step of the nondescript high rise, the pounding soaked through Bucky’s suit with very little regard for how expensive it was. Fortunately, Bucky didn't care for it either.

 

On the other side of the scale, and on the opposite side of the elevator, Steve was looking down at his own wet-through v neck and dark skinny jeans forlornly. They’d fared even worse than Bucky’s unwanted suit, which seemed to Bucky a rather cruel twist of fate; a twist they'd both have to deal with, albeit for entirely different reasons.

 

Bucky averted his eyes from the way the material stuck to Steve’s ribs and tiny waist, took a deep breath and stared holes into the elevator doors until they dragged open with a mechanical grind and a warped pinging sound that set Bucky’s teeth on edge.

 

It wasn't like Bucky had actually thought he could have a chance with Steve. That, despite the lingering glances and odd flirtation, they could be something. It was just that maybe he actually had. Humans and vampires didn't mix, but there were at least a few odd exceptions. Now Steve was a lycan and that changed things. It changed everything.

 

“It’s one of the places we use for interrogations,” he told Steve as he led him into the sinister hush of a sparse apartment on the seventeenth floor.

 

He found the switch on the wall, flicking the lights to illuminate a cramped room with peeling paint, dirtied-white and worn, and ruptured floorboards.

 

The flare of the industrial lights made Steve wince, but he looked even more uncomfortable when his eyes adjusted. Even without Bucky’s introduction, it was inconceivable that this might be somebody’s home, impossible not to see the danger in a wall of knives over-qualified for cutting bread or in a dented metal chair nailed down and reinforced like no dining chair would be. The shiny surfaces looked infinitely darker when you realized they were conveniently wipe-clean.

 

The door clunked shut, sealing them in and soundproofing the room as though they were standing in a vacuum, and the silence sounded like a scream.

 

Bucky walked into the room easily, dumping his sodden suit jacket on the filthy stainless steel counter. Steve’s eyes tracked the movement, lingering when he registered drops of age-old blood, dried a rust red on the silver surface.

 

Feeling Steve’s frown at his back, Bucky's guilty conscience had him thinking that just like one of those magic eye pictures, where he saw justice, Steve saw death. It sparked an odd hit of self-loathing that sizzled uncomfortably under his skin. He turned around but didn't meet Steve's eyes as a raindrop fell from his hair, icing a path under his collar and down his spine. “There's some bleach around here somewhere,” he said carelessly. “If the blood bothers you, that is.”

 

“Not really,” Steve responded evenly, and from what Bucky could tell, honestly. Bucky didn't know whether to be impressed or annoyed. “Is it lycan blood?”

 

Falling down on the side of annoyed, Bucky kept his voice detached and carefully devoid of reassurance as he said, "Yes, but you don't need to worry about them coming back. Any lycan that's ever stepped foot in here has never walked out again.”

 

Clouds swarmed over the sky blue in Steve’s eyes. He was doing a good job of hiding it, but Bucky could sense the tornado whipping behind his hard expression. It was there in the divot between his eyebrows, the tight purse of his pink lips, pressed pale with tension. There was a skull hanging over his head. A life-bar that incrementally died back with every second that slipped past.

 

For all that it was easy to be casually accepting of Steve’s situation, it was the first time Bucky had seen his _Is this my life now?_ face and it kind of sucked the breath out of him.

 

Without thinking too much about it, Bucky let his cold mask drop enough to tightly say, “You’re safe from them here.” It was slightly strangled, light on empathy, and Steve might think it was just lip service, but Bucky couldn't force anything else through his lips.

 

“You keep saying that,” Steve observed tiredly, moving over to a scratched up desk, eyes scanning the top cover of a neatly stacked pile of files. “Each time you sound less sure.”

 

When Bucky said nothing, Steve turned his back to the desk and leant against the worn wood, taking his time to study Bucky’s blank expression before speaking again. 

 

“What about your kind? They know we're here.”

 

“My friends know we're here,” Bucky corrected. “There's a difference.”

 

Steve surrendered his hands wryly, the movement exposing the veins on his inner wrist. Bucky looked away quickly, nerves jumping with the visceral pull of blood.

 

Steve was nodding. “Your friends seem loyal.”

 

There was nothing in his tone but observation. No judgment or uncertainty, no question or hidden suspicion. A simple statement of fact. If Steve knew about the time Clint had hot-glued pink glitter all over the front of Bucky’s combat vest or peppered his pillow with powdered garlic, he might reconsider that statement.

 

Bucky wanted to grin because despite all that, Steve was absolutely right.

 

“They are,” he nodded, body lightening at how confident he was in his agreement. If nothing else, Bucky could trust Clint and Wanda with the same unshakeable faith with which he’d come to rely upon his own ability in the field.

 

Layered underneath all that, Bucky felt relief in the face of another example of Steve’s good judgment and uncanny ability to read situations. If Bucky was going to keep him alive long enough to find out Romanoff’s plan, that skill would make his job easier. Maybe by only the slimmest of margins, but if Romanoff was the lycan everyone said she was, Bucky would need every fractional advantage he could get.

 

Bucky sighed out a breath as Steve surveyed the room, gaze hooking on a shelf of silver knives and machetes. “And what about the rest?”

 

Steve’s voice knocked Bucky out of his thoughts, drawing him in from across the room, making it hard to remember why he was annoyed with him in the first place. He didn't have to wrack his brain for long when bright, blindingly blue eyes were seeking Bucky out again, flickering across his features like they were trying to read him and potentially, eventually, might just succeed. Bucky couldn't let that happen. Stranger or not, vampire or not, Bucky didn't let people in easily, if at all. He'd built up his walls for a reason, and they were impenetrable.

 

Humming, he swept his palm in the air over the counter to encompass the dark splatter of old blood as evidence to support the summary, “The rest of us are merciless.”

 

Including himself in the statement was more than just a threat. It was also true. He'd never leave a mess behind like this, but he'd made plenty of messes here. Crushed bodies. Snuffed out lives. Lycan lives, and each of those messes tipped the scale further in favor of justice.

 

In the stark brightness and empty breaths between them, Steve looked like he might pick Bucky up on the statement. To what end, he wasn't sure, but after a few seconds of careful quiet, all Steve said was, “This is pretty bad then.”

 

It was an accurate assessment. Personally, Bucky would have gone for _fucked up_ , but still.

 

“Lay low here,” he advised eventually. “Believe me or don't believe me, but you'll be safer here than anywhere else.”

 

Very slowly, like treacle through a stubborn sieve, the tension started to drain out of the room.

 

Bucky busied himself searching for food in his go-bag and then moved on to the one Wanda had given him for Steve. Eventually he gave up and dumped the contents of both bags onto the metal bench with a clatter and a cascade of miniature pencils rolling in all directions and mostly ending up on the floor.

 

“Wanda,” he snapped at the unassuming Ikea stamped sticks of wood.

 

She liked to hide them all over the place, a kind of joke that wasn’t really funny but was endlessly amusing to the three of them. Only now, Bucky was far from amused.

 

Surveying the mess, he waited for a smart assed comment from Steve’s direction with no intention of letting him in on the joke. When no comment was made and he turned to see Steve eying up the closest pencil as though it was a tiny fortuitously-placed stake, he realized that Steve had got the joke whether he knew it or not.

 

Ikea’s predecessor, a standard HB, had made the point — the perfect poor relation to even the most pathetic of wooden stakes — but Wanda’s general feeling was that it hadn’t been quite ironic enough. Still, if the little pencil under Steve’s watchful eyes had even the slimmest chance of finding a vampire’s heart, Bucky was pretty sure that Steve would manage it.

 

Under the focus of Steve’s look, Bucky was surprised the stubby little pencil didn’t start rolling closer to him, powered by sheer force of will.

 

Bucky raised his eyebrows, waiting to see if Steve would chance it, when suddenly, Steve spoke. His voice was low in that heady bass of his, and surprisingly mild. “I can only imagine you’re making a very little fence.”

 

Blinking, Bucky regarded him. Because… that was… that was a Buffy reference, right?

 

At first, he wasn't sure it was deliberate, then he saw the mischievous smile playing at the corners of Steve’s lips and he had to temper his own grin into a frown.

 

“So we're joking now,” Bucky grumbled, though his frown was already fraying a little at the seams. “You should know that one shared pop culture reference doesn't make us friends.”

 

He applied a greater level of concentration to the dried food packaging in his hands than required. If he hadn't, he might have been comforted by the sight of Steve’s frustrated attempt to break through what he saw as a phenomenally executed poker face.

 

Every few minutes after that, he'd feel Steve’s gaze straying to him, different to before. The attention crafted coils of heat through his core, but he couldn't help contemplating the food in his hand with a scowl. He’d spent his formative years assembling weapons quicker and more competently than anyone he knew; dehydrated noodles shouldn’t be beyond his capabilities. If he ate the amount of human food Clint did, he’d take his chances and just guess.

 

“Why do you have a kettle in here?” Steve’s voice filtered through his thoughts.

 

“Tea breaks,” Bucky muttered absently. “Monsters need caffeine too.”

 

Turning his back on the reluctantly boiling kettle, he found Steve looking distinctly surprised, as though he’d been expecting Bucky to outline the uses of boiled water for torture. In that moment, Bucky didn’t have the heart to tell him that scalding was the last in a long line of worries that lycans faced in this room.

 

As the water started to boil, roiling away crossly, Bucky folded his arms over his chest. “So, when did you move here?”

 

“Why ask? You’ve got a whole file on me. You probably know which terminal I landed at,” Steve snipped, but it was half-hearted at best.

 

“Let’s say I don’t. For the purposes of the next hour, there is no file.” He waited for Steve to humor him with a nod before starting again. “Where are you from? You don’t sound Hungarian.”

 

“No need to stereotype,” Steve said blandly, but Bucky was getting better at seeing when amusement was buried not far underneath. Steve carried on despite Bucky’s scathing look. “Next you’ll be saying that I don’t look gay.”

 

Bucky swallowed down his heartbeat and dumped too much water in the mug. “You can’t _look_ gay.”

 

“And you can’t _sound_ Hungarian.”

 

“That’s clearly only true in some cases,” Bucky was saying over his shoulder, responding to the goading immediately. “Do you always argue for the sake of arguing?”

 

“Do you always deliberately provoke people when you want something from them?”

 

Quickly glancing backwards, Bucky raised his eyebrows at Steve’s offended expression. “Need, not want,” he reminded as he viscously stirred the noodles into life. “What I want is to kill the lycan clan that's after you. To do that I need you as leverage.”

 

Bucky heard Steve scoff quietly. “Charming.”

 

“And yet somehow more charming than me driving this fork into your spleen,” Bucky said, sickly sweet, flipping the utensil around his fingers.

 

Behind the window, the evening was still split with that thick, rippling curtain of rain, but the dark glass showed nothing of the night and all of the scene inside. In the foreground, Bucky’s own eyes were hard, thrown back at him because there was no mercy and even vampires were faced with their own reflections from time to time. His eyelashes were charcoal smudges around his eyes, a stark contrast to the forever winter-pale of his skin.

 

He was ripped out of his thoughts by Steve’s voice.

 

“As it happens, I’m a New Yorker. Brooklyn.” His voice was slow and considered, like he was weighing up the balance of the words in his mind. He cleared his throat. “And gay.”

 

Bucky’s grip on the mug tightened. He wanted to turn but didn't trust himself to look neutral, so he compensated by watching Steve’s reflection in the glass under the pretence of checking the street below.

 

“Was that in the file too?” Steve asked Bucky’s back.

 

Plastering a smirk on to his face, Bucky looked over his shoulder. “What file?” he whispered conspiratorially.

 

Steve eyes gleamed brightly before he dropped his head and his little smile towards the floor. “Umm, so are you—”

 

Bucky pushed the mug into Steve’s hands abruptly. He wasn’t prepared to wait out that sentence when it could lead to any number of dangers. Wherever it was headed, Steve would be prompting for more information than Bucky was prepared to give.

 

“Eat this before you start making this conversation awkward,” he instructed.

 

Steve’s eyebrows went up. “Not really what I'd call a conversation.”

 

“We’re mortal enemies. There isn't really a requirement for us to speak at all.”

 

“Mortal enemies,” Steve repeated. “Does the phrase drama queen mean anything to you?”

 

Bucky did a double take. “You can talk.”

 

Steve Rogers was kind of the most unexpected drama queen Bucky had ever met. And he'd met a lot.

 

Raising his mug of noodles, Steve commented, “So mortal enemies don’t speak, but they make each other dinner?”

 

“You offering me dinner?” Bucky smirked before he could stop himself.

 

Steve stilled at the precise moment Bucky froze, eyes meeting briefly before Bucky cleared his throat.

 

“You might not call that dinner once you’ve tasted it,” Bucky advised, leaning forward to look over the rim of the mug. “Looks disgusting. I don’t know how you stomach that stuff.”

 

Distracted by hunger, Steve pushed a forkful of noodles into his mouth before he could protest to Bucky’s evasion. When he swallowed, he started on a different train of thought.

 

“Do you eat…” he waved his hand in a beckoning motion like a plea for help, before giving up and finishing the sentence with, “... solids?”

 

Bucky enjoyed Steve’s wince for longer than was strictly necessary before answering him. “We _can_. Clint certainly does.”

 

A tiny nodding smile later, Steve was probing for more. “Do you sleep?”

 

“We _can_ …” Bucky started, catching eyes and matching Steve’s tiny smile with one of his own while his tone filled the rest of the sentence for him. Bucky would bet the mansion's whole freezer of blood stocks that Clint was sleeping at that very moment.

 

Taking a sobering breath, he watched Steve lick stray sauce from his wrist. “We do actually need to talk,” Bucky said. “Don't look so smug. This isn't the sort of talk you're going to enjoy. I need you to tell me about the hallucinations.”

 

“Not much to tell. There's a courthouse and a woman on trial. The man presiding doesn’t look like a traditional judge but he must not rule in her favor because she… she’s devastated and the sentencing is death. I don’t know, it comes and goes in pieces. There’s no order to it. Just a lot of light at the end… like the memory is overexposed.  And red. There’s a lot of red.” Bucky filed the information away, hoping Steve would remember more. He didn’t. He just asked the age-old question that nobody bothered asking anymore. “Who started the war?”

 

“They did,” Bucky said without hesitation. He shivered in the chilly air and eyed the pathetic looking heating unit skeptically.

 

“Who’s they?”

 

“Lycans. Your kind.” Bucky looked straight at him. “You.”

 

“Not me, not my kind,” Steve said firmly, every inch the unaccustomed villain. “You should let me help you. I’ll go out of my mind here with nothing to do."

 

Bucky looked at him for a long time. “I’ll think about it,” he said finally. “But this might actually be beyond either of us. If I can’t make headway in the next couple of days, I’ll have to wake Pierce.”

 

“Pierce?”

 

“He’s one of the vampire elders. The strongest and oldest.”

 

Steve chewed slowly. “Why would you have to wake him? How long does the guy sleep?

 

Suppressing a chuckle, Bucky answered, “He’s not asleep, he’s in cryofreeze. It’s always been the same. One elder rules the covens while the other two lay in hibernation. Waking him is a last resort. I don’t think it’s ever been done before time. I’d probably be breaking a hundred laws if I did it.”

 

Steve nodded thoughtfully, then he paused his fork in the process of mug-to-mouth to assess the way Bucky was moving to sit on the metal countertop opposite him. “You’re staying?’

 

The warm hum layered into Steve’s voice made it strangely hard for Bucky to say, “Just until you’ve eaten. Those cuffs need to go on.”

 

Bucky’s chest tightened as he saw Steve’s face fall a fraction. It was just a second and then Steve schooled his features into something more disinterested and the sticky regret that had pulled Bucky’s chest inwards started to dissipate. It wasn’t too difficult; he’d built an entire life on hating lycans.

 

“You got any fruit?” Steve asked. If Bucky weren't trying to shut out any notion that he and Steve could actually be friends, he'd think that Steve was stalling for time.

 

“Not unless you can find some under all the silverware,” Bucky indicated to a pile of weapons sarcastically, “then no.”

 

“You were using silver weapons in the hospital. That spray, and the knives.”

 

“Bullets too. Lycan’s are allergic to silver. If I shot you now and left the bullet, it would penetrate your organs and kill you.”

 

Steve’s sudden, crooked smile was so out of place, so very focused, Bucky found himself blinking in the face of its intensity. “Is this… are we talking theoretically here?”

 

The curls of Bucky’s dry laugh trickled into the darkness. “For now, yeah.”

 

Bucky sent his smile into his lap, absently pushing at a cuticle. He hadn't felt that odd flutter in his chest for a long time. Hadn't felt the extremes of annoyance and fondness or the balance in-between for even longer. Immortality led you into jaded indifference and he couldn't remember the last time he was passionate. Determined and driven, yes. Angry, yes — at the lycans, and maybe at Rumlow — but even his fury had muted over time to a dull burn.

 

And yet, somehow this man had him buzzing with anticipation for nothing more than the next words out of his mouth.

 

Looking at Steve, Bucky realized that the non-stop nothingness had just stopped.

 

“That’s the fourth time you've done that,” Steve informed him, voice smooth and casual.

 

Bucky’s eyes flew upward. “What?”

 

“That thing with your mouth.”

 

Bucky almost felt his face heat, and instead of ignoring the comment, an answer pressed its way through his lips before he could fix Steve with a glare. “Biting my lips? It’s just a habit, I—”

 

“Nah, not that,” Steve interrupted with a brimming laugh, “I lost count how many times you’ve done _that_. I mean when you sort of purse them together like you’re trying to stop yourself speaking.”

 

Bucky drew in a controlled breath.

 

“Or to stop yourself smiling,” Steve pressed. “Or to—”

 

“Stop myself ripping a six inch hole in your neck?” Bucky suggested with a borderline growl.

 

Steve’s eyes widened slightly, lips quirking at the corners even as he ducked his head to cover it.

 

“Stop psychoanalyzing me,” Bucky demanded, phasing his voice into something calmer and cooler and that sounded more like him.

 

When Steve looked up, he seemed genuinely concerned that he'd caused offence. “Sorry, that wasn't what I was doing. You're just…”

 

Whatever it was Bucky is or was or might be, Steve looked away instead of vocalizing it.  

 

Bucky shrugged it off and got to his feet, pushing a hand through his hair then rubbing the tension from his jaw while Steve couldn't see.

 

“If you're leaving,” Steve said, attention drawn. “I need a weapon.”

 

“Doesn't mean you're getting one,” Bucky snorted around the back of his thumb. “I don't make a habit of arming lycans.”

 

Steve scowled and refused to look Bucky in the eye for a few moments. He ate slowly, and Bucky waited, feeling Steve's eyes straying to him every so often, and stealing back a few glances of his own.

 

It was when Bucky was fastening the cuffs around Steve’s wrists that he felt a change.

 

The room burned a few degrees warmer, Steve's eyes on him turning a shade darker as they flicked along the curve of his thighs, up his torso and over his face, eyes lifting to meet Bucky's and stopping there, determined.

 

Bucky’s breath stuttered when Steve's hand slid onto his thigh and his gaze tripped down to follow the bow of Bucky’s lips, slow and obvious.

 

Bucky shivered. It was times like this he wished he wasn’t what an untimely death and a violent reincarnation built him to be. If he wasn't, he wouldn't be able to see through the smoky heat in Steve's eyes, or predict that the exact path Steve’s hand would take was designed with an ulterior motive in mind.

 

Bucky knew when someone was wrecked with lust and when someone was using it as a weapon because it was the only power they had left. Right now, he wished he didn't. Steve had so many tells, and they all told Bucky that he was working his way towards the glint of metal peeking out of Bucky’s pants pocket.

 

He had to bury the impulse to screw his eyes shut when Steve squeezed just above his knee, still looking at him with confident eyes, mouth slightly open as he wet his lips.

 

The thing was, it could be perfect. It was so deathly silent around them. A pause like the city was drawing in a breath, then a flare of arousal that zipped to his toes and charged every nerve in his body. They were so close he could start to count the lines streaking out from Steve’s irises, could feel Steve’s pulse thrumming in the pads of his fingers, through the cotton blend of his pants and drumming into his veins.

 

Steve’s chest rose slowly, drawing in a breath that seemed to push out the last of the space between them. Pulling in a shaky breath of his own, Bucky let his eyes go heavy lidded with lust. Let the buzz on his skin drown him; a meter deeper for every millimeter Steve’s fingers travelled up his thigh, splayed and flexing with each hitch in his breath.

 

He could let it play out just a few seconds longer. He shouldn't, but he would. For a moment, he’d let this be something it wasn’t. But then Steve's fingers were trailing the stitch of a pocket seam and Bucky was forced to act, snapping his hand out, halting Steve's progress with a tight grip around his wrist.

 

“Shit.” Steve’s shocked curse slapped its way into the air, and he grimaced, eyes dipping quickly to where his hand was immobilized and hovering just over the hilt of Bucky’s pocketed dagger. “Shit,” he repeated, eyes wide and mournfully measuring just how close he’d come to taking the weapon.

 

Close, in this instance, was more of a measure of distance than the probability of success in Bucky’s opinion, but he was spun out, angry and stung for an entirely different reason. Which was why he held on a bit longer as Steve’s hand attempted escape, fragile bones squirming under Bucky’s hold.

 

“That’s mine,” he gritted out dangerously.

 

Steve’s head snapped up, recoiling slightly, expression frustrated and actually a little sheepish. And maybe it was the harsh lighting, but there was something else too; something that Bucky was too worked up to identify.

 

He slowly, purposefully, returned Steve’s hand to his own thigh and released him.

 

“You need to learn to lie better.” He made his tone bitingly cold because Steve didn’t need to hear the tiny bit of disappointment that threatened to slice little wavering cracks into his voice.

 

He wasn’t hurt, he _wasn’t,_ because he’d have done the same thing in Steve’s position, it was just that for a second there he thought… well, it didn't matter what he thought, but as much as he'd like, he wasn't made of stone and his skin still tingled from the heat of Steve’s hand, could still feel the rush in his veins.

 

Angry with himself, Bucky pulled Steve’s wrist too roughly into the chains. Steve hissed, wrenching his arm back uselessly. He was nowhere near a match for Bucky in terms of physical strength, but Bucky wasn’t fool enough to think that that really meant anything.

 

“Bones don’t bend that way, pal,” Steve hissed again when Bucky ratcheted the cuff shut. He pushed for a couple more clicks, and there was no way he’d admit why.

 

“Believe me,” Bucky muttered darkly, “they do.”

 

Steve’s fierce frown wavered into something strangely contrite, but didn't break eye contact.

 

Bucky scowled. “You really thought that was going to work?”

 

“Nowhere near as well as it did,” Steve replied quietly before quickly biting his lip like he hadn't planned to say the words out loud. Bucky narrowed his eyes regardless because if Steve was trying to be cute after that little stunt, he could fuck right off.

 

Turning his back, Bucky gathered his stuff and tried to keep the anger from showing in his posture. “I’ll be back tomorrow.

 

“They'll come for me,” Steve said as Bucky stepped towards the door. “And you won't give me a weapon to defend myself with. I'm not much use as leverage if I'm dead.”

 

“Did I say leverage?” Bucky snapped. “I meant bait.”

 

It was becoming a bit of a theme. This feint and dodge. And when he wasn’t being provoked into little white lies, he was running towards them and grabbing them in both hands like a shield.

 

Steve’s shocked silence ended the exchange, but Bucky couldn't move on for a while. He may as well have been caught by one of his own AG rounds for all that his blood seemed to scream like Steve was the silver in his veins that wouldn't end him but would make his bones ache for days.

 

Bucky needed to have left two conversations ago.

 

Steve was yanking on the manacles, testing for weakness when Bucky heard a noise in the hallway.

 

“There are two guards at that door,” Bucky told Steve, a warning looped into his tone, one that Steve noticed but disregarded.

 

“I can look after myself.”

 

Bucky waited for more but Steve’s face was resolute and there was no explanation forthcoming. The comment which had floated in Bucky’s head unfinished apparently needed a period.

 

“You’ve been bitten by a werewolf,” he pointed out, confident this one example would blow Steve’s argument to high heaven.

 

“Darwinism says I should have been dead a long time ago. And I ain’t dead yet.”

 

Bucky blinked at him. Jesus christ, he was entirely serious. And he might even have a point. He made a note to talk to Clint about that later.

 

“I don't want their help. Give me a weapon and I'll be fine.”

 

Bucky cut him off with a shake of the head. “Still, no. I have orders to kill any lycan, including you.” He couldn’t help but think that he’d killed hundreds, thousands, it really should be easier to believe the words.

 

“Then why don't you?” Steve challenged.

 

Bucky growled and leveled Steve with an irate glare. “I need to know why they want you so bad. For now, that makes you useful to me. And that's the only reason you're still alive.”

 

At that, Steve’s eyes chilled to ice instantly. He turned as far away from Bucky as the restraints would let him. “You should probably go then,” he offered.

 

In every way, Steve was right. So Bucky did just that.

 

He waited until he’d silently passed Sam and Riley, until the building was at his back and the night had swallowed him up.

 

Then he sighed, tipped his forehead against the rough brick of an unseen alley, and muttered a heartfelt, “Fuck,” into the wind and rain.


	6. VI: The Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve’s relationship shifts as they're drawn closer together

**VI: The Shift**

 

Heading for the safe house the next afternoon, Bucky silently worked his way through the mansion, waiting for the sky to change.

 

He’d spent the hours since dawn straining his eyes at a screen, clicking through the world's media for reports on the hospital attack, only to be surprised that it wasn't the headline he thought it would be. Every article agreed: four wounded but none dead. The lycans had been firing warning shots, he'd heard the ceilings blow under the force of the slugs, but he'd assumed they'd murdered their way through the building too. A lycan attack without human casualty was unheard of.

 

Every article read the same so he moved on to the coven’s archives on Romanoff and searched, tracking the spider by every pseudonym she’d ever adopted, cataloging every move she’d made, every victim she’d taken and every weapon she’d used right up to the point where she'd been reported deceased. Or, as Bucky suspected, the point at which Rumlow had made a deal with her. And that was where the trail went dead. Even with Bucky’s access, there was nothing.

 

Not even a rumored sighting to keep Bucky’s mind off the syrupy slow creep of time before he could leave for the safe house. Instead he'd sat in a corner of the library, checking the progress of the stubborn sunset through the smoky glass, his mind a whirlwind of: _Steve,_ _human_ _, lycan, Steve SteveSteveSteve._

 

In his impatience, the sun crawled higher instead of lower, and Bucky was just a toe tap away from being considered desperate.

 

So as it turned out, tied indoors at the sun’s whim, Bucky had coldly hunted for one lycan while he waited out the day until he could go and visit another. It was crazy, and Bucky felt crazy with it.

 

When the sun finally settled, he snuck out with the moon, and there was a delicate, beautiful irony to it. It was when Rumlow caught up with him halfway across the estate that the poetry ended, and Bucky was instantly annoyed. He didn't know who Rumlow had scouting out his escape routes but they were _good_ , and Bucky’s pride hurt as he mentally scrubbed another exit off his list.

 

“Barnes.”

 

“Make it quick,” he snapped grumpily, forgetting for a moment that Rumlow could make him pay for it, could redeploy him and stick him in with the paper pushers, knowing that Bucky would hate it.

 

But he didn't, and sure enough the next words out of his mouth proved why.

 

“Be in the armory at midnight,” he ordered.

 

Yeah, Rumlow needed something alright. Resigned, Bucky inclined his head for more.

 

“Report directly to me. We got word of two simultaneous lycan attacks planned for tonight. I want you leading one of the units. Pick someone else from your team to lead the other.”

 

“They didn't waste much time,” Bucky frowned. “Are we counting this as a ‘pattern’? Or does there need to be a threat to our coven on a daily basis before you start taking this seriously?”

 

Rumlow’s eyes went flinty, but his barked retort was interrupted.

 

“Sorry sir, but this is important.”

 

The soldier the voice belonged to was hovering on the skirt of light the moon had created, sounding serious and looking determined enough that Rumlow would have to hear him out. Bucky recognized him as one of Sam’s men. He'd always seemed level headed, sufficiently adept with a gun that Bucky had remembered his name.

 

“I have a message from Banner,” Ruis said. “He needs to see you straight away.”

 

Rumlow’s terse, “Why?” clipped off the end of Ruis’ sentence.

 

The soldier hesitated, eyes flicking to Bucky like he thought the message probably shouldn’t be overheard.

 

Bucky feigned disinterest, and Brock was either sufficiently convinced or too impatient to care. “Well, what is it?”

 

Standing on the figurative fence and the fringe of pasty moonlight, Ruis balled his fists by his sides, the only outward sign of annoyance at Rumlow’s tone. “He said to tell you _‘Corvinus.’_ ”

 

The word meant nothing to Bucky, but it clearly meant a whole lot to Rumlow. His body tensed and his vampire eyes snapped to Ruis, eyebrows lifting in surprise, then darted back to judge Bucky’s reaction.

 

Fortunately, Bucky’s poker face was world class, and boredom was his default setting around Rumlow, so it wasn't hard to act like he’d missed the strange significance of what had just taken place.

 

“Stay there,” Rumlow told Ruis. To Bucky, he said, “Midnight. You’ll be briefed fully then, but you’re only to use lethal force as a last resort.”

 

Now it was Bucky’s turn to look surprised. “Say again.”

 

“Tell your men they’re not shooting to kill unless as a last resort.”

 

“So this is a prisoner snatch. How many do you want?”

 

“No, and none.”

 

“What?” Bucky looked at him in disbelief. “This is, what… the fourth infringement in two days? And you don't want to question a single lycan?”

 

“No, I don't,” Rumlow grit out slowly. “Follow orders and ask questions later. Just do your job, Barnes.”

 

Bucky barked a hollow laugh. Asking a death dealer to rough up lycans but neither kill them nor bring them in for interrogation was the exact opposite of his job. Really, the clue was in the title.

 

“If we're not killing them and we're not questioning them, what are we doing?”

 

Rumlow bared his teeth. “We're subduing them. Carter will be arriving soon and I don’t want half the coven in the middle of battle when she gets here.”

 

Disbelief had rebellion bubbling up in Bucky’s stomach like poison. “What are you hiding from? Pierce wouldn’t stand for this.”

 

Ruis’ face adopted a carefully nonpartisan expression as he took half a step back into the smudge of night. In contrast, Rumlow’s eyes glittered hard in Bucky’s direction for a long time before he finally spoke. “Times are changing,” he stated. “We’re doing things a little differently around here now.”

 

Since ‘differently’ sounded a hell of a lot like _less competently_ , Bucky had to turn his back to hide his sneer.

 

If times were changing, then so were the rules. It was a thought Bucky couldn't cut loose. Maybe all this world needed was for someone to change the state of play.  

 

Hours later he'd still be wondering why in that moment all he could think of was a blond with a defiant tilt to his chin and soft blue eyes that saw more than they should.

 

~

 

Bucky arrived at the apartment less than twenty minutes later with a bag of Peter’s skinny jeans and t-shirts in one hand, and a shiny green apple in the other.

 

Only Riley was at the door, which was just as well because Bucky wasn’t in the mood for Sam’s sharp cheekbones and quick witted hostility.

 

When Riley casually advised him to brace himself as he opened the door, Bucky had expected to find Steve angry. All riled up and yanking at his manacles with his skinny arms. Not this.

 

Certainly not this.

 

Halfway across the threshold, deliberately scuffing his shoes to give Steve a heads up that he was entering, Bucky lifted his eyes and came to a dead stop. His mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide, trained on Steve like they might never look away.

 

To his credit, Steve just took it. Steve, who was meeting Bucky’s shocked stare with a stoic one of his own despite the fact that overnight his body must have felt ripped apart and sewn back together again.

 

Steve, who was now a foot taller, twice as broad, and muscled everywhere.

 

Bucky inhaled quickly. In all his years, he’d never seen a physical change so dramatic or so early on in a transformation. His own band t-shirt, which in very recent history had been oversized on Steve’s small frame, now pulled tight across his shoulders and chest. His biceps strained the sleeves, thicker fingers twitching minutely around the chain between his wrists. The shackles themselves had warped under the pressure of Steve’s wider wrists, but the metal held. Just about. Steve had let out the top two buttons of his jeans, where his waist still narrowed, and had toed off his shoes. Inconveniently for Bucky, there was something quite endearing about his socked feet.

 

The atmosphere spoke volumes but Steve didn't say a word. As Bucky stared, Steve waited, watching with such intensity that Bucky got the feeling that a lot rode on his reaction. To that end, he tried to keep the shock from his face, but considering his left hand was now clenched in a tight first around the door knob, which screeched in protest under the pressure, he was surprised the apple had so far survived in his right — that it wasn't in his left hand was probably the only reason it had.

 

Clearing his throat, Bucky carefully asked, “You wanna talk about this?”

 

“Not right now,” Steve replied evenly.

 

Bucky nodded slowly. “Alright.”

 

Leaning against the door, he waited, listening to the hum of the generator and thinking about the now redundant bag of pre-lycan-Steve sized clothes he’d gone to the effort to borrow. Sighing, he dropped the bag on the floor with a touch of impertinence before kicking it into the corner.

 

A second later he pitched the apple at Steve’s face.

 

Steve reacted quickly. Much quicker than he would have yesterday. Quicker even that Bucky had anticipated. Bucky catalogued the movement with interest, assessing the way Steve’s open hand flew up in front of his face in an instant, apple smacking into his palm with a loud _thwack_ — the only sign that Bucky had thrown it with three times the force of an MLB pitcher.

 

Steve looked from the fruit in his hand to Bucky. “Was that really necessary?”

 

The corners of Bucky’s mouth tipped down while he quirked an eyebrow and shrugged a shoulder noncommittally. It was an insolent gesture that he knew riled people up in more ways than one.

 

“Yeah, thought so,” Steve grumbled. He still made sure to look up at Bucky under his eyelashes as he took a bite of the apple.

 

Bucky’s first smile of the day faltered as Steve chewed, lips shiny with juice. Every part of Bucky wanted to chase the sweetness from his mouth.

 

Turning the apple slowly, Steve sighed. “You’re going to tell me this is bad, aren't you?”

 

“Obviously,” Bucky agreed straight away. Such a solid reminder of Steve’s lycan transformation meant bad news for both of them. A few hours ago, Bucky was banking on the fact that lycans didn't turn completely until the full moon after they’d been bitten. Now he had the uncomfortable feeling that Steve may be the exception.

 

Steve shook his head as if Bucky’s response had proven him right on some score but that he was miserable about it all the same. “They’ll come for me no matter what,” he said grimly, flexing his jaw. “Now I can fight back.”

 

Bucky didn't know how to admit that in the past forty eight hours he’d never once got the impression that Steve couldn't. And he had no idea how to say that the reason Steve was now a force to be reckoned with was not because he was suddenly enhanced and hard muscled, but because he'd been larger than life to begin with.

 

Bucky really admired it, which was highly inconvenient because Steve would probably die soon.

 

That aside, Steve’s reasoning struck a nerve, and despite Steve looking at Bucky like he just didn't get it, he actually did. It was why he’d chosen immortality — for the strength to fight.

 

The sound of the world outside washed over them as Bucky walked further into the room, leaning against the metal counter and running another quick check over Steve now that the initial shock had worn off. Steve’s skin was bright, healthier, but the sleepless bruises under his eyes were harsh under the glare of the overhead lights.

 

“Apart from the obvious, was everything okay here?”

 

“I guess. Considering there’s no mini bar or AC,” Steve replied gravely, but his eyes were amused. “Wouldn’t rate the view either.”

 

Bucky looked at him, tried to resist lingering. If he was a dizzy teenager he might have mentioned that the view was pretty good from where he was standing, but he hadn't been that carefree punk of a kid for decades, and he didn't think he could remember what it felt like even if he tried. It was too long ago and his memories of that time were scrambled, but there was something. Brightness, maybe. Like sun drenched rooms and easy smiles. He'd been hard working, he thought. Focused. Happy when he felt at home. That boy had crushed, had been crushed and bounced back. Steve might have liked him then, but second chances weren't to be second guessed.

 

All he knew was that now he was the kind of person who gave orders and expected to be obeyed. The kind that hurt sometimes but forced his face to hide it and his voice to cover it. Someone who wouldn't stand backchat, and really, he probably ought to at least give the illusion he wouldn't take it from Steve when he apparently would.

 

So Bucky gave Steve a dirty look, and drolly said, “I'm sorry this interrogation room come safe house isn't to your liking, Rogers.”

 

While Steve sent a crooked smile to the floor, Bucky caught himself just as he started to wonder whether any of the other rooms had a view Steve would prefer. Sometimes it shocked him how ridiculous he could still be after existing so long.

 

“The power went out,” Steve informed him around another bite of apple. Considering the abuse it had received, it was probably bruised to high heaven, but Steve was clearly hungry.

 

“Thought it might,” Bucky nodded. “Clint’s been trying to cover our tracks, but we knew the generator would kick in eventually. Any escape attempts you want to confess before I get a debrief?”

 

“No,” Steve said, sounding indignant. His face, when Bucky flicked his eyes over to check, was distinctly displeased.

 

Bucky sighed. He’d offended Steve yet again and this time it was entirely unintentional. At a bit of a loss, he kept his mouth shut and let the seconds grind noisily in the space between them. Steve frowned as though his honesty was being challenged by Bucky's silence.

 

All Bucky could think to do was nod dutifully and change the subject. “Did Sam or Riley come in today?”

 

Wiping apple juice from his mouth with the back of his hand, Steve nodded. “Riley took the cuffs off so I could use the bathroom and stretch my legs.”

 

“This place has a bathroom?” Bucky asked, genuinely interested.

 

“Most buildings do,” Steve ventured, a little curve returning to his lips.

 

In the chair, lit with that tiny crooked smile of his — as bright as if he'd been grinning — Steve settled back, more relaxed in his own skin than when Bucky had first stepped in the room. Despite all that, Bucky could see he was uncomfortable, his eyes slightly dozy. Sweat dotted his hairline and there was a flush high on his cheeks. He must have reached over and turned the heater on even though he'd complained that the room felt like a sauna the night before.

 

Taking another look at the overworked unit, Bucky swung into the seat opposite Steve. “It’s thirty degrees in here,” he observed.

 

Steve cleared his throat and seemed to find his left cuff fascinating. “You were cold last night.”

 

There was an odd flutter in Bucky’s chest, and the prickling voice in his head that insisted he'd bought the apple because it was convenient and most definitely irrefutably _not_ because Steve had asked for fruit, didn't feel the need to insist quite so loudly anymore.

 

Steve took a deep breath and shifted in the seat. The movement made his stomach muscles clench under thin cotton and Bucky found his mouth drying out.

 

“Did you find anything?” Steve asked. “About Romanoff?”

 

“Yes.” Bucky lifted himself onto the counter, heels knocking against the side with a melodramatic clang that might have had them both flinching if they didn't have immortal reactions. “But only what’s already common knowledge,” he admitted. The part of him that wanted to impress grimaced. “I have a lead,” he added before he could question why he was doing it.

 

Steve turned his head to the window thoughtfully. “If she’s hurt, that would give us more time. Do you think she was injured at the hospital?”

 

He was probably thinking of the dagger Bucky had thrown at her, the silver spray and the impact of the car. Bucky could see where he was coming from, but Bucky also knew that Romanoff had pulled those blades out herself, right before she’d jumped out of the spray’s blast zone and then smiled as they drove away. No, Bucky thought, she wasn’t injured.

 

It was easier to sigh and say, “Who knows,” than break the news that the immortal world in which Steve now found himself wasn’t anywhere near as easy as all that.

 

“And their motive for going after me?”

 

“They're afraid of you,” Bucky said quickly. The way Steve had asked the question had carried an air of _me of all people_ that Bucky instinctively felt he had to correct. “It’s the only reason they didn’t kill you when they had the chance. You must have something or know something and not realize it. Or at least, they think you do. And it’s making them nervous.”

 

Steve didn’t argue, just seemed to let the information settle. “I don't want anyone to be scared of me.”

 

“You'll regret that someday,” Bucky sighed because unfortunately Steve meant it.

 

“Scaring _them_ might be okay though,” Steve amended after a few moments of thought in which his expression darkened a touch. “If they’re going to kill innocent people.”

 

“The humans at the Medicover survived,” Bucky told him, sensing that Steve’s thoughts were drifting back to the subway, when it would be much better for his soul if Bucky could refocus him on the hospital. “They're all safe.”

 

Relief flooded Steve’s face and Bucky suddenly saw how very much that meant to him.

 

“You'd have stayed, wouldn't you?” Bucky stated, hoping Steve wouldn’t notice the awe-colored frame around the edges of his voice. “For them. You really would have stayed.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve answered with a small shrug. “Anyone would.”

 

Bucky raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Outside a motorbike sped by as Steve tilted his head to the filthy ceiling above.

 

“When did you become a vampire?” he asked Bucky neutrally. A second later, a teasing smile grew on his lips. “I assume you weren’t always one; you don’t sound Transylvanian. What? You were so fond of stereotypes yesterday.”

 

Bucky glowered over at Steve who seemed to be enjoying the way the jibe felt on his lips. “You should know you’re on thin ice right now,” he warned.

 

The sight of Bucky annoyed was a scary one. Steve just rolled his eyes. “Sorry,” he shrugged unapologetically, making the stretched material stretch even tighter over his chest. “I hate stereotypes.”

 

Bucky swallowed a groan and wondered whether Steve hated stereotypes as much as Bucky hated too tight t-shirts.

 

A few seconds later, Bucky sighed with irritation, more for show that anything else. “I was seventeen when I was turned.” Then because he was unduly worried that Steve would get the wrong idea, he firmly added, “I wanted it. I asked for it. I wasn't turned against my will.”

 

Steve chewed thoughtfully, not giving Bucky a heads up before he threw the apple core back at him. “Are all the stories true?”

 

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “I have no idea what you're talking about, but from my experience of stories, I'd be willing to bet the answer is no.”

 

“Traditional vampire stories,” Steve clarified even though he knew that Bucky was being purposely awkward. “Stakes to the heart. Garlic. I already know the one about sunlight is true. Do you have any enhancements?” He fiddled with the chain again. “Other than the,” he continued with the aid of two index fingers in the general vicinity of his canines, “you know... fangs.”

 

“Yes,” Bucky glared, “I know fangs.”

 

Steve’s eyes tripped in thought and Bucky got the impression he was about to ask for a display of teeth. A snarl for show.

 

“No,” Bucky answered the unspoken question and watched Steve’s mouth slide into a bright, snarky smile. “Thin, Rogers,” he reminded. “Very, very thin.”

 

Steve’s smile didn’t waver but Bucky answered him eventually.

 

“Enhanced speed, strength, sight and hearing. Sense of smell doesn't increase that much. Not like with lycans.”

 

He couldn't help the drop of acid that accompanied the last word, but he was immediately distracted by Steve’s hands twisting in the cuffs, fidgeting against the way the metal dug into his skin. He'd noticed him doing it earlier. Hadn’t expected to still be waiting for Steve to make a complaint about it though.

 

The key felt like it was burning a hole through the denim of his pocket, and he’d made Steve suffer long enough, but the cuffs held memories of the night before and it made Bucky want to throw Steve off kilter. Just a little.

 

Holding eye contact, Bucky dropped down from the counter and slipped across the distance between them, making a show of leaning in, hands either side of Steve’s and bending at the waist so close that he could smell crisp apple on the little puffs of Steve’s breath.

 

“Want them off?” he offered right into Steve’s ear, pitching his voice purposely low because turnabout was fair play and he enjoyed the shiver that tumbled down Steve's spine.

 

He watched with interest as Steve’s eyes glazed slightly, breath hitching on the inhale. It was dangerously gratifying, purring under Bucky’s skin and tightening his gut with a hot trip of arousal. By the time he’d tilted his head so his lips were a whisper away from touching the shell of Steve’s ear, he was in danger of falling victim to his own game, no longer sure who he was torturing more.

 

Steve’s face flashed with a sharp pained look. It lasted the span of a quick blink, but Bucky would swear blind he'd seen it and now it was hard to unsee.

 

He was almost relieved when Steve told him to “Cut it out,” in a voice that was deliciously graveled with want.

 

Turning the key so that the cuffs fell from Steve’s wrists, Bucky may have smirked. And let his eyes dance from under his lashes as he stepped back, vindicated.

 

It took a moment for Steve’s eyes to trail back up Bucky’s body. There was a blush on his cheeks that disappeared under his neckline as he exhaled sharply, shuffling a little in his seat against the uncomfortable press of his pants. There was something oddly intimate about watching him slowly put himself back together.

 

Steve's eyes were still dark when he looked back up. “Guess I owed you that one.”

 

And just like that there was a different current in the air around them, thrumming between them and filling the room.

 

“Guess you did,” Bucky agreed ungraciously.

 

Steve glared at the metal now in his lap, absently rubbing his wrists free of the ache. Bucky could tell that the only thing quelling his anger was the reminder of the day before. All Steve would have to do to even the playing field was to point out that Bucky had obviously liked it.

 

The, “Sorry,” that pushed its way across Steve’s lips surprised Steve as much as it did Bucky.  Brushing off the shock, he continued, “I didn’t mean to treat you like you were...”

 

“Easy?” Bucky supplied quickly. “Corruptible?” He flashed Steve a look. “Stupid?”

 

Steve nodded yes and quickly shook no, unsure what fit. The whole process was solemn. “For the record, I don't think you're any of that.”

 

Bucky bit down hard on his bottom lip, hand wringing against the edge of the counter until it flexed and protested under his grip. Of course he was sore from Steve trying to play him the night before, but to turn it back on him was a low blow, and by all rights Steve should call him out on it.

 

“It was a dick move on my part,” Steve said instead, standing up. It was instinct for Bucky to stand up too. To put himself on an even footing in case Steve was a threat to be mitigated. It wasn't until he was looking in Steve’s eyes that he realized he actually didn't need to.

 

A full minute later, Bucky carefully replied. “Maybe. But if I agreed with you, it would mean I'd have to apologize too.”

 

The remorse cleared from Steve’s face a fraction. “Yes it would,” he said softly, lips parting slightly and smiling as though he could practically taste the olive branch in the air between them.

 

A peace offering. The thought dug into Bucky’s sides, niggling at the flesh over his ribs. There wasn't a world for a lycan and a vampire. Bucky would know — he'd spent his existence striving for a time when the two would never have to coexist again, and he couldn't forget that it was a life he’d signed up for. The sooner Steve realized it, the better. The sooner Bucky remembered it through the constant fog clouding his judgment, the better.

 

Bucky worked from the safe house for the next two hours, too tired and too fired about the hunt for the Black Widow to even think about all the reasons he shouldn’t. To compensate for the fact that he really, _really_ shouldn’t, he ignored the biggest reason most of all.

 

As though Steve sensed as much, the time Bucky worked was layered over a backing track of Steve’s fluctuating pulse, little sighs that slipped his lips when he thought Bucky couldn’t hear, and the tread of his footsteps as he scouted out the room.

 

“There’s a mattress back here,” Steve called after a good forty five minutes of silence. “So you don't actually sleep in coffins, then.”

 

“No, we incarcerate lycans in them,” Bucky called out flippantly as he typed _corvinus_ into another section of the coven’s archive.

 

A huff of laughter skipped its way around the corner, then stopped abruptly as Steve backed up a couple of steps so he could see Bucky’s face. “You’re serious,” he realized.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky confirmed, lifting his head from the screen with a quiet sigh of amused laughter.

 

Steve’s mouth formed a little o, a tiny frown line divoting the top of his nose. It was endlessly charming and Bucky hated it. He was still adjusting to seeing Steve in a new body. Still adjusting to Steve period. Something about him in any incarnation made Bucky’s skin fizz and his teeth hurt.

 

After that it was a bit harder to start researching again. He found himself watching Steve move around the perimeter of the room, assessing walls and windows, and felt a sting of disappointment until he realized that rather than looking for ways to get out, Steve was actually looking for ways to barricade himself in. He wasn’t as methodical as Bucky was trained to be, but he seemed to be coming to all the right conclusions.

 

Bucky hadn’t planned for the slow, fond smile that crept onto his lips. Or that Steve would turn and catch it, offering a matching smile in return.

 

Forcing back a shiver, Bucky reflexively frowned the smile off his face. It was remarkably effective; there really was very little a frown couldn’t ruin. Looking at Steve’s reaction, Bucky started to wonder if it may actually hurt more to see it than it did to fake it.

 

The magnet between them that constantly swung from pulling them closer together to pushing space between them, had taken another full 180 degree turn in favor of throwing them poles apart.

 

Bucky couldn’t stand the thought, and didn’t like the way the light fell along the sharp line of Steve’s clenched jaw. He wanted that smile back, and while he could try and convince himself that he didn't need to analyze it, nobody was that good a liar.

 

Without thinking any more about it, Bucky cleared his throat. “Here,” he muttered, taking the knife from his pocket. If Steve was watching, which he was, he’d see that it was the same knife he’d tried to steal the night before.

 

Bucky couldn’t bring himself to walk through the tension, so he slid the knife along the counter. Before it came to rest in front of Steve, he was already taking a loaded gun from his waistband and was sliding that towards Steve too.

 

“If they come and I'm not here, aim for the head,” he instructed. “I doubt they'd get through Sam and Riley, but if they do, now you have your weapon.”

 

There were so many ifs in that sentence that he may as well have taken the gun back. But that wasn't the point. It was more than just a gun he was putting in Steve’s hand. He was handing over trust too. There was just enough justification — Romanoff and her reputation, Romanoff and the any number of lycans she might have at her disposal — and Bucky was just good enough at acting, that he didn't shift nervously as he did it.

 

“And if you're here?” Steve prompted, that serious face growing more serious by the second.

 

“Then you won't need it.”

 

Steve tested the weight of the gun in his palm. “What if it’s a vampire that comes for me?”

 

Bucky blinked. He couldn’t argue that it wouldn’t make sense to arm Steve with something other than silver bullets and blades, but it was a risk. And Steve knew it.

 

“One round,” Bucky said abruptly. He fished in his back pocket for the UV bullets Clint had returned to him and tossed one into the air.

 

Steve caught it then opened his hand to inspect the bullet sitting in the centre of his palm. He didn't seem to be trying to hide the surprise on his face.

 

“One round,” Bucky repeated. “If you try and use it on either Sam or Riley, the other will turn on you.”

 

As far as trust exercises went, it was pretty fucked up, but Steve accepted it, respected it, perhaps even appreciated it.

 

Against the door, there was a knock of a boot heel. Once, twice, to confirm to Bucky that the exchange had been heard and noted. It wasn’t loud enough to carry annoyance so Bucky assumed it was Riley.

 

“When I get back I expect to see you alive,” Bucky told Steve. Then because it sounded too much like he cared, veered too close to the truth, he added, “You’re no use to me dead.”

 

Steve offered him a withering look. “I wouldn’t dream of putting you in that position.”

 

Bucky pressed his tongue into the back of his teeth. If he didn't, he might just do something stupid like lean over and nibble at Steve’s ridiculous jaw.

 

~

 

That was Sunday. Or so Steve had told him. Bucky had nodded like it mattered, for all that it meant nothing at all when the only clock they needed to worry about was the lunar cycle and its unrelenting countdown to the next full moon.

 

He hadn't restrained Steve that night. Had just left him standing by the window, looking out at a world he couldn’t have anymore, a wash of moonlight white on his skin.

 

Despite the risks associated with giving Steve a weapon, when Bucky returned the next day to find that there was less blood in the apartment than when he’d left it, he wasn't actually all that surprised.

 

As Bucky slipped through the door, Steve looked up from where he was scrubbing at the metal counter, his frown of concentration bleeding into a small, curling smile.

 

Bucky smiled right back and blamed it on the heady scent of toxic chemicals that swam its way into his head.

 

“I can honestly say this is probably the only time that bleach has been used for cleaning,” Bucky said in a rather sinister tone.

 

If Steve was in any way affected by Bucky’s allusion to lycan torture, he didn’t show it. But then he hadn’t seemed all that bothered about the blood, and yet here he was scouring it away.

 

When Bucky said as much, Steve laughed, low and rumbling. “I was bored. And if _you’re_ bored, the kettle’s right there. There’s only one use for tea leaves, right?”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes and immediately thought of seven different ways to fuck up Steve’s tea.

 

And that was how they found themselves, circling each other by the tiny kettle that was irrecoverably scaled up, sparking at the plug so that Steve was forced to break first and reset the fuse. Bucky should just chuck it and be done with it, but he knew he wouldn't.

 

Steve’s eyes were smiling when he gently guided the milk carton away before Bucky could pour some in his tea. It was a bit domestic and Bucky frowned into the cups like it was annoying. It wasn’t his best attempt, but the chipped porcelain wouldn't know the difference between a real frown and a fake one anyway.

 

“You want some tea with your sugar?” Steve teased when Bucky was done piling sweet heaps into his mug.

 

Letting the mug muffle his smile, Bucky’s free hand dug the teaspoon back into the packet for more — to _‘cut off his nose to spite his face,’_ as his mother would have said.

 

“Shit,” Bucky hissed loudly as steel drums crashed inside his skull at the memory, sugar tipping off the side of the spoon.

 

This never happened to him. He was so used to not-remembering his family that even the hint of a memory was overwhelming, jolting like the recoil on a fifty caliber bullet. It made his chest feel tight and twisted into knots, then stretched and wrung out so that he was left aching.

 

It was better when he didn't remember. Pierce had told him that once or twice, and Bucky was in full agreement all over again.

 

“Some higher power agrees with me about the sugar,” Steve joked carefully, indicating the scattered sweetness that hadn’t made it into Bucky’s cup. His tone was considered, mindful of whatever catastrophe was going on in Bucky’s head. “Alright?” he asked softly, a few moments later when Bucky still hadn’t looked away from the spilled sugar.

 

The question cut through the mess of Bucky’s thoughts like morning sun slicing through cloud. Nobody really asked Bucky if he was alright anymore. There was no room in Bucky’s life for him to not be alright.

 

He snapped his head up. “Peachy,” he replied, forcing a lazy looking smile that didn’t quite hide the way the word seemed to have soaked up his panic.

 

Steve nodded and turned his attention to the bag that Clint had dropped off earlier, politely giving Bucky the time to dust himself off. While Bucky sipped his tea, Steve pulled out new clothes and towels, and a packet of biscuits which Clint had decorated with sharpie-d messages that Bucky suspected he didn’t want to read. But the biscuits involved ginger and chocolate this time and before Bucky could do more than side-eye them with interest, Steve had pushed them along the counter so that they came to rest by Bucky's elbow.

 

Not referencing the gesture in any way, Steve grabbed a towel on his way to the bathroom. “You got a razor?” he asked.

 

Bucky shook his head, admiring the ripples he was blowing on the surface of his tea instead of thinking about Steve stripping off for a shower.

 

He wouldn't have given Steve a razor even if he had one, and not only because he didn't trust him not to start amassing a collection of tiny blades.

 

“I'm going to look bearded and homeless,” Steve mused.

 

Bucky shrugged because really it was the least of their worries. And because maybe he was into bearded and homeless. When it was Steve.

 

The rush of water filled Bucky’s ears and he knew it was time to go. He didn't need to be around to witness Steve emerging from the bathroom in nothing but a towel and beads of water, the result of which would imprint itself on his brain for all time and send his will power up in smoke.

 

He put his mug down with a careless slam and ignored the hiss of Riley’s wince through the thick door and Sam’s resulting laugh.

 

On his way out, Bucky realized that once he left, Steve would go back to his bleach and his boredom. Before he could think too much about it, he pulled one of his two phones from his coat pocket, removed the SIM, disabled the security lock and left the cell on the mattress with his earbuds.

 

As an afterthought, he quickly typed a message as the cell’s new wallpaper, because if Steve messed with his Spotify playlist Bucky would end him, critical witness in an active investigation or not.

 

~

 

The next night started with resignation over a lie, and ended with an argument about another.

 

Bucky had found Steve asleep on the mattress, looking peaceful and altogether too comfortable. Particularly when Bucky had spent five solid hours chasing cold leads.

 

Yanking the white cord, Bucky had pulled the earbuds from Steve’s ears. “You better not have been fucking with my playlists.”

 

“I _avoided_ your playlists,” Steve had grumbled, somehow managing to convey scorn though his voice was sticky and thick with sleep.

 

“Liar,” Bucky muttered before putting an end to the whole exchange because he'd suddenly forgotten what _annoyed_ even meant in the face of Steve rubbing sleep from his eyes and looking too good as he blinked owlishly up at him.

 

A few hours later and Bucky had remembered.

 

Thoroughly annoyed, with no sleep-softened eyes to distract him, Bucky stood firm. “You're a terrible liar.”

 

Steve screwed his face up but had the good grace not to defend himself a second time. Typically, however, the little pout of his lips was a bit distracting in its own way.

 

Earlier, Sam had made the point that there would be people looking for Steve. People that cared, people he worked for, even neighbors for whom it would be strange not to see him go about his daily life. It wasn’t that Bucky hadn’t already thought about it, but between the hunt for the Black Widow and her motive, he hadn’t had the time to deal with it. But then Sam had mentioned it in a tone that suggested he was calling Bucky’s professional integrity into question. So now it took priority.

 

“ _We’re_ going to write a facebook post,” Bucky announced, having already told Steve that he couldn't lie well enough to do it on his own. “You’re safe and well, decided to take a vacation, you won't be contactable, blah, blah, nobody needs to come looking for you. That sort of thing.”

 

Steve really was a terrible liar. There was no two ways about it. But if he couldn’t lie through the means of the printed word, there was literally no hope for him.

 

As a trial, Bucky let Steve compose something that, if it passed the test, he'd send to a friend. Through some careful investigative work, Bucky had made sure that this friend was really no more than an acquaintance by three degrees of separation. If it all went to hell, it wouldn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

 

A few very boring minutes later, Steve turned the cell around to show Bucky what he'd written.

 

“Yeah, absolutely not — just give it here,” Bucky instructed with a put-upon sigh.

 

“I _could_ be following a touring band,” Steve defended.

 

“You could, but you’re not sixteen,” Bucky snapped. “First rule of lying… make it believable.”

 

“I actually really like live music. Check your file.”

 

When Bucky breathed in and out in quick succession and made his eyes flash blue, Steve folded his arms over his chest. “Fine,” he gritted out, low like it really wasn’t. “You talk such shit sometimes, you know that?”

 

They settled on a pan-European art trail in the end, which Bucky still had issues with but was so fucking bored by this point he simply didn't care anymore. As he composed the wording, Steve monitored progress over his shoulder, inching further into Bucky’s space with every thirty seconds until there was no justifiable reason for him to be standing as close as he was.

 

Bucky turned his head a little, breathing deep, but didn't pull away. When he resumed typing, Steve sighed, and for a moment melted even closer against the curve of Bucky’s back, broad chest spanning strong shoulder blades.

 

Just when Bucky was ready to lose it, Steve stepped away with a little shake of the head that also served to knock the shock from Bucky’s brain.

 

“There,” he said, turning. “Done.”

 

Steve gazed at him, long and quiet. Then with a smile like unbreakable sunshine, thanked him.

 

“You’re welcome,” Bucky replied, and couldn't understand why the words buzzed like rich buttercream on his tongue.

 

~

 

Steve wasn't always so amenable.

 

There were occasions when Bucky walked in and walked straight back out again. On each of those occasions, Bucky would call up his friends and wave a white flag so big it was surely a mast commandeered from an 18th century warship. But his various surrenders never received a warm welcome.

 

Clint called him an insufferable twat because it wasn't long ago he'd been in England and, in Bucky’s opinion, was one himself.

 

Wanda told him she'd taken his favorite vinyl hostage until he found out what Corvinus meant, and that Steve actually seemed really nice so would Bucky just give the guy a break please.

 

Tonight, Bucky could immediately tell that Steve's mood was off. He'd found a punch bag. From where, Bucky didn’t know, although he was starting to think the coven’s interrogators didn't do a hell of a lot of interrogating when they were here. Wherever he’d dredged it up from, Steve had suspended it, wrapped his knuckles in strips of bed-sheet and he wasn’t holding back.

 

From the kitchenette, Bucky watched Steve’s back tense and flex as he rained down hard punches, muscles bunching and rippling with the effort.

 

He cleared his throat. “How are you?”

 

The bag jumped on its chain as Steve landed a vicious uppercut. “I’m a werewolf,” he said in answer.

 

Okay then.

 

Bucky sighed because it was suddenly a lot harder to be mad when he remembered that Steve had every reason to be fucked off with life. At the same time, Bucky felt oddly responsible. He'd thought about it a lot. Could he have stopped Romanoff before she'd got to Steve? Would Steve be safe and unbitten if Bucky had been a bit quicker, a bit smarter?

 

The guilt and the self-doubt brought out the worst in him, and he found himself answering Steve’s statement with an unsympathetic, “Yes?”

 

Steve looked away irritably. “If I ever see my friends and family again it will be to bury them. So maybe don't ask me if I'm okay when nothing’s really going to be okay again.”

 

Before he could really think about it, Bucky said, “There’s always something worth sticking around for.”

 

“Like?” Steve met his eyes and there was a strange energy between them that made Bucky want to close the distance. A second later, Steve looked away and it was gone. “Hot dogs?”

 

Bucky screwed his face up, unsure why hot dogs alone would make a life worth living, but each to their own. “Cheese, maybe,” he conceded.

 

“No, I mean that I can smell hot dogs. Did you bring some?”

 

Bucky regarded him.

 

Clearly a little disappointed, Steve shrugged. “Must be next door.”

 

“The building’s empty,” Bucky corrected, crossing to the window and peering out.

 

Sure enough, there was a hotdog vendor pushing his cart. Two blocks away, with a cross breeze that would be sending the scent east and away from them. All Bucky could smell was artificial noodle flavoring from Steve’s lunch.

 

“It’s you,” he concluded. “Your sense of smell is becoming more sensitive. By the time the change is complete, you’ll be able to smell hotdogs in the next town.”

 

In the thick silence that followed, Bucky imagined that his eyes were probably just as flat as his voice.

 

Steve’s almost imperceptible wince verified it. “Great,” he huffed out sarcastically, taking it out on the bag.

 

“You're scared,” Bucky realized.

 

Steve let the bag swing then caught it, pushed the hair out of his eyes. “That surprise you?”

 

“I guess not,” Bucky breathed out quietly.

 

“Does anything scare you?” Steve asked like the answer was a simple _no_.

 

Bucky kept his face blank. Maybe Steve didn't see as much as Bucky thought after all. There was plenty that scared him. Some even terrified him.

 

“Nope,” he said casually.

 

They spent the rest of the hour before dawn pretending to hate each other.

 

~

 

By the seventh night, Steve’s company had become familiar. Comfortable. And Bucky didn’t like to think too much about why.

 

They seemed to have worn themselves a groove, built a den of new branches grown on common ground. Every move more familiar, less tentative, each step taking them off tip toes.

 

They ate together each night. Bucky called it breakfast and Steve insisted it was dinner. Except that it was definitely breakfast and that Bucky never actually ate anything, just pulled apart a banana and thought about how revolting it looked. How it smelt like somewhere he'd like to flee to.

 

Behind the scenes, Steve had privately found some kind of compromise with the heater. Cooler than Bucky craved but much warmer than Steve himself liked.

 

When he realized Steve’s concession, Bucky’s private smile was small but real.

 

~

 

“There’s a charger for the cell in there.”

 

Before Bucky could say anything else, Steve was diving straight for the bag.

 

Noticing the vampire’s raised eyebrows, he defended, “The battery died ages ago. Do you know how boring it is here without music?”

 

“More boring than being dead?”

 

Steve narrowed his eyes, indicating out of the window with his hand. “I can tell you that the guy who works the early shift at the supermarket always gets a venti from starbucks.”

 

Bucky sent him a bored look. “Fascinating.”

 

“You're telling me,” Steve deadpanned, point perfectly proven.

 

Bucky felt like he was piling dead weight on the corners of his mouth to keep a straight face. “Anything else?”

 

“It's two for one Tuesday at the cinema,” he said in the same dull tone. “They're showing The Lost Boys.”

 

 _That really bad 80s vampire movie,_  went unsaid, but he pinned Bucky with a look that suggested he was veering away from bored and heading towards amused.

 

“I don't know why you're looking at me for shade,” Bucky said. “I love that film.”

 

Steve grinned. “Do you like to point out vampire inaccuracies?”

 

“How boring would that be? No. I like to voice-over every line with gay subtext.”

 

Steve’s eyes drifted over Bucky’s face and then down to the floor. “I've never seen it.”

 

“As depressing as that thought is, I'm not letting you out of here so that you can go watch it.”

 

“If you let me out of here, I wouldn't be going to see a movie.”

 

“I know,” Bucky said pointedly. “The thing is, you believe you know what you'd be doing instead, but you don't. You wanna leave and never see me again, and that's just fine by me, pal. But when the hunger hits, you'll hunt and you'll feed. You'll kill innocent people and you won't be able to stop yourself. Then you'll have that on your conscience. Forever.”

 

“Are you speaking from experience?”

 

It was a hard question to answer lightly. There was a special brand of hell reserved for those that had committed the atrocities that Bucky had. Fortunately Buffy saved the day. “Yes. I have a broody and miserable Angel-sized conscience. But without the redemption arc.”

 

The thing was, with every flippant comment he made, Bucky would find another hint of who he used to be. And with every understanding nod or encouraging smile he got in return, he felt compelled to discover more.

 

~

“Stop psyching out my cat.”

 

Steve frowned, adorably confused, looking between Bucky and the blue Persian sat in front of him. “He's yours?”

 

“Not really. He's a stray.” Bucky brought his hands up like weighing scales. “I feed him and we tolerate each other.” When his hands had finished showing a fine balance, he bopped a one shoulder shrug. “I guess that means we belong to each other.”

 

Steve looked like he wanted to say something, eyes slightly raised in amusement, words pressing against his lips and a glint in his eye.

 

Bucky was a frown and a “What?” down before it occurred to him that the words could be true of more than just the cat. There was every chance Steve was about to allude to whatever the hell was going on between them, and it made Bucky’s breath short.

 

Slowly, very slowly, Bucky smirked. “About time I cut him loose really.”

 

Steve quickly schooled a look of surprised amusement and chose a grave expression instead. “Wow, I can see why he likes you.”

 

“Remy,” Bucky declared, picking the cat up with one hand. It mewled in his face disdainfully.

 

Knocked off course, Steve's brow furrowed again, little creases forming between his eyebrows that begged to be kissed away. “What?”

 

“The cat. It's called Remy.”

 

“Aah.” Steve leaned back with a smile. “Got it; name it then chuck it out on the street.”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “He's _from_ the street. He doesn't need saving. Leave him be.”

 

Steve rolled his eyes right back at him, then he was giving Bucky that small secret smile, ducking his head on a rich chuckle, like the drizzle of warm honey. “You never thought about keeping him around?”

 

Bucky wove his fingers into soft, gray-blue fur but didn't lift his gaze from Steve. “Occasionally.”

 

He was flirting. Through a weird convoluted conversation about a cat. But he was flirting nonetheless. It felt natural, as automatic as dipping the clutch before changing gear. He remembered when he learnt to drive. He remembered when he learnt to flirt too. The memories jarred through his mind, a tangle of live wires sparking inside his skull.

 

Meanwhile, Steve’s lips were flirting with a smile, delighted, victorious and, yes Bucky thought, hopeful too. “We still talking about the cat?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Steve’s lips curled wider. His eyes dropped almost shyly and he made a noise to Remy that somehow got the usually uncooperative cat to pad his way closer.

 

In another life, this half-baked, fake hate would end in sex _—_ the ultimate in conflict resolution. Or was it conflict avoidance? Either way, it was impossible to ignore the crackle between them that hinted at a physical connection.

 

Then there was… everything else. Whatever word encompassed the deeper emotion that Bucky couldn’t quite put his finger on but was neatly summed up in the little hits of equator sunshine when Steve forgot that Bucky was an enemy with a friend’s face and smiled at him.

 

He really should have gotten Steve out of his system a long time ago.

 

By the window, Steve was holding Remy up and talking to its grumpy little face. “I hope he doesn't think I failed to notice that he named you.”

 

If looks could kill, Steve’s body would be bleeding out from hundreds of pairs of inch long puncture marks.

 

Very sweetly, Bucky said, “I'm not the one talking to it.”

 

At the _bing,_  he took Steve’s dinner out of the microwave, pulled off a piece of chicken and held it out towards Remy, who skidded on the floor in his haste to get to it.

 

Steve scowled. Whether he was mourning the loss of protein or of silky soft fur, it was unclear, but Bucky was delighted all the same.

 

“His love is conditional,” he told Steve smugly.

 

Steve just grinned.  “Sure is.”

 

Bucky’s smile dropped. “Back to your impending transformation,” he snipped coolly.

 

~

 

When Steve started to plug silences with randomly selected life stories, filling the gray spaces between breaths and heartbeats with screaming color, Bucky would find himself inconveniently rapt.

 

It started with the house he grew up in, the city he loved, the way his mom made pizza with him and let him ruin it with sweetcorn. Bucky soaked in every story; the ones Steve thought were important — adding weight to the words, struggling to look up, eyes shining — and the ones he treated like throwaway tidbits. Bucky listened to them all with equal care.

 

To Bucky, the memories he unveiled looked like all the scattered pieces of his life falling from the sky around him. To Steve, it seemed to be an opportunity to weave them all back together again, and stitch Bucky into every piece.

 

The trouble came when Steve’s stories sparked the memories of Bucky’s forgotten ones.

 

He talked of plotting vapor trails in high summer and Bucky was seven again, chasing clouds that looked like the astronomy charts he’d poured his heart into when he was ten. He saw the untold stories unfold in his mind, behind his eyelids when he tried to blink them away, and they hit him like a blow to the solar plexus.

 

Like now.

 

“Have you always liked tea?” Steve asked over the top of Bucky’s laptop screen. Bucky looked up, but Steve was nowhere near as close as he'd sounded. Or as close as Bucky had hoped.

 

“I don't—” He cut off, tried again, “Yeah, I guess.”

 

“Well, you sure like it now.”

 

“Sometimes I do,” Bucky hedged, letting honesty guide the words. “Sometimes it just reminds me how cold I am.” He wrapped his hands around the mug Steve pushed towards him.

 

In the back of his mind, a voice told him not to be so ungrateful, words in his head that sounded so much like Pierce.

 

Steve hummed into his apple — braeburn today — from where he was half strewn on the window seat. He jammed his other hand into his pants’ pocket as though he might otherwise reach out for Bucky.

 

He seemed like the kind of person that would offer to warm someone's hand in his coat. If he owned a coat. Bucky thought that maybe his blood ran too hot for one. It would be a shame to hide him under wool or leather anyway. On second thought, if Bucky let out the buckles a little, his combat suit would probably fit him. And that would be a sight. Bucky would absolutely love that.

 

“I don't like the cold,” Steve said, shivering like he'd been too cold too many times before.

  
Bucky pulled at a strand of his own hair, pushing the sour skepticism from his mind because it wasn't fair to compare Steve’s experience of cold with his own. Steve hadn't been dead three lifetimes, wasn't chilled from the inside out, and Bucky was glad.

 

“I’ve never loved the sun all that much,” he claimed, but it was a segue too far removed to be natural and his tone smacked of bitterness.

 

Steve didn't say anything, just appeared to roll the statement around his head a while. “Not a Summer kid then?”

 

“I like Autumn.”

 

He got a slow, considered nod. “The changing season.”

 

Somehow the lie hurt. And Steve’s gentle acquiescence, while real, was covering a thoughtful attempt to encourage Bucky to correct the lie.

 

Bucky imagined he could see the ice on his own skin splinter, cracking out in jagged, vulnerable lines.

 

He watched the clouds slide across the sun behind Steve and dared a step closer to the window.

 

Seconds made way for minutes and he could feel Steve’s patience cover him like a warm sweater straight from Steve’s own back. Scrap warming hands in pockets, Steve would just give up his coat entirely.

 

“I love the sun,” Bucky finally admitted under his breath.

 

Steve nodded again, slowly, completely unsurprised and possibly a bit proud. “Yeah.”

 

~

 

The stories Steve told of his childhood were mixed. There was love and there was growing up fast, uprooted from one place and thrown into the next, only to come full circle again.

 

It explained how well he'd dealt with the events of the last week or so. How being equipped with a raging heart and steeling it with love and loss, had armored him for it.

 

Bucky was left wondering if he could claw away a piece of that heart for himself.

 

~

 

The next time Bucky walked through the front door of the mansion, Rumlow watched him a little too closely.

 

Halfway through his assessment, Rumlow’s bitter-coffee eyes narrowed and he started to look at Bucky like he almost didn’t recognize him. Which was strange because Bucky felt more like himself than he ever had.

 

The next time Bucky walked back out of the mansion, he’d cleared his vault and left nothing it wouldn’t hurt to lose behind.

 

~

 

“You’ve made a friend.” It wasn't a question and Bucky was most definitely not impressed.

 

“Not a friend as such,” Steve started, looking to Clint for help and coming up empty handed. “She’s a neighbor.”

 

“This block is empty,” Bucky asserted, more to reassure himself than anything.

 

“She moved in yesterday,” Steve shrugged. “Fell on hard times, but she's not ready to talk about it yet.”

 

Bucky opened his mouth, startled, quickly closed it again. What the…?

 

“Moved in?” he questioned, incredulous. “This is private property.”

 

“Jesus,” Steve laughed. “Not in the mood for charity, clearly.”

 

Bucky glared at the assessment.

 

“She's got the right idea though,” Steve went on to say. “The people in the hotel room across the street just left for dinner. We should go in through the window and claim squatter’s rights. Bet they’ve got a bath and a California king.”

 

Bucky blinked at him until Steve’s face spread into a shit eating grin. He probably should have known it was a joke earlier, but when it came to Steve, Bucky wasn't too proud to admit that he was still very much on the bunny slopes.

 

Regardless, he wasn't in the mood to laugh. “Well, now you've gone and made friends with the lady next door, we're compromised. We need to do something about her.”

 

“Come on, man,” Steve said easily. “We're not killing Mrs Ruffle.”

 

“Is that really her name?” Bucky demanded, because he wouldn't put it past Steve to fabricate the sweetest name he could think of to make it as hard as possible for Bucky to kill her.

 

And really, it was better than dwelling too long on how it made Bucky so gone when Steve said ‘we’. He was sure that _partners in murder_ was not as cute as Bucky’s subconscious seemed to think it was.

 

“She's really nice. Likes talking to me about goulash. Says I'm a gentleman.”

 

Clint, who'd been very quiet until now, sitting with the sort of entertained aesthetic that lacked only popcorn, suddenly snorted loudly with a glance at Bucky. “‘Gentleman.’ Like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, huh?”

 

Bucky ignored him, turning back to Steve’s aggravatingly attractive face. “Does she not think it's a little odd that you've got people guarding your door?”

 

Steve shrugged casually, but his eyes had a strange focus to them. “I told her that you live with me and that I worry about you.”

 

Bucky’s mind screeched to a halt leaving him with a mouthful of air and a shocked expression, catching himself just before, _‘Do you?’_ slipped his lips. Obviously that would have revealed far more than it would have disguised.

 

“Who _is_ this woman?” he almost-shouted in frustration.

 

“Mrs Ruffle,” Steve said, firmly enough that Bucky went oddly quiet. It was the same controlled, even tone that he’d used in the getaway car. The one that’d had Bucky buckling his seat belt before he could think to resist.

 

“Mrs Ruffle?” Clint fired Bucky a teasing smirk. “You catch her first name, Steve Rogers? We got no idea who you're talking about unless you use both names.”

 

Steve looked confused. “Do you know _another_ Mrs Ruffle?”

 

Clint’s grin spread so wide it was offensive. “Nope.”

 

“Shut up, Clint,” Bucky certainly didn't growl.

 

“Just keeping you honest,” Clint supplied, eyes twinkling.

 

Bucky groaned and turned back to Steve, who looked completely lost. “So she’s not in any way suspicious?” Bucky demanded skeptically.

 

“The window’s open,” Clint threw in before Steve could answer. “She'll be able to hear you talking.”

 

“She’s probably not in actually,” Steve advised. “She goes to the park on a Tuesday morning.”

 

Bucky spread his arms in agitation. “How do you know that? How did you even meet her?”

 

“When I was talking to Sam in the hallway.”

 

“You're not even supposed to talk to Sam!”

 

Sensing Bucky was on the verge of a meltdown, Clint heaved himself out of his seat with a groan. “Steve can handle Mrs Ruffle, but neither of us can handle Wanda if we're late. Let's go.”

 

Bucky looked from Clint to Steve. It was only years of practice that kept his face from creasing into uninhibited laughter.

 

On his way out the door, he couldn't stop his body turning back to Steve even if he tried. “You need to stop talking to Sam in the hallway,” he told Steve’s smirk. “And stop making friends with random women.”

 

Sadly, the first thing Clint said to Bucky on the way out of the building stole the smile from his face.

 

“Rumlow wants him dead. Everyone’s looking for him.”

 

“Who, Steve? Shit, since when?” Bucky blurted, only remembering that he shouldn't care this much when he found himself on the receiving end of an odd look. “You know I'd kill him myself,” Bucky lied quickly. Half lied. What did it matter anyway? “But we're no closer to finding out why the lycans need him. He's worth more to us alive. It makes no sense for Brock to want him dead.”

 

Clint was still looking at him strangely. “We've killed a shit ton of people, Bucky.”

 

“But we always knew why.”

 

Quirking an eyebrow doubtfully, Clint rubbed his hands together as they walked. “Did we?”

 

“It doesn't matter. Rumlow’s got a stake in this, I know he has.”

 

“If that’s true we’ll have to take him down too.”

 

Bucky perked up. “I'm surprisingly alright about that.”

 

Finally, Clint relaxed, tipping his head back and laughing at the stars. “You know, I can never work out if he wants to kill you or be you. He's like this tom cat that drags in carcasses because he thinks you'll be impressed and grateful.” He clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder as they took the steps of the mansion’s mausoleum. “It's just a depressing coincidence that it all happens to be literal as well.”

 

“The meeting with Stane is set for tonight,” Wanda said from out of the pitch black.

 

“Shit,” Clint startled. “You’re getting as bad as him,” he shoved at Bucky’s hip though it had nothing to do with Bucky. “A bit of warning, next time.”

 

Bucky laughed. “We came here to meet her! Was two hours warning not enough?”

 

Purposely ignoring him, which only made Bucky’s smile turn into a grin, Clint sat on the nearest crypt. His silence lasted all of a second before he laughed too. “Asshole,” he grumbled.

 

Wanda, who’d started laughing long before either of them, and straight after Clint had shrieked in fright, stood up and gave Bucky a piece of paper with a scrawled address. “It's all arranged. Two AM at his place.”

 

Bucky gave her a lazy salute and beamed in thanks. He was almost positive that Wanda had not-quite been an angel for longer than she'd actually been a demon.

 

“Who was your point of contact?”

 

“Charming gentleman. By which I mean he was neither of those things. Let's just say, it won't play on my conscience that I fucked around in his head a little.”

 

Clint chuckled from behind his quiver.

 

“Stane thinks you’re there to buy silver rounds,” Wanda continued. “I didn’t want to make him suspicious. He also thinks this meeting has been set up for months. The money’s in that suitcase,” she told Bucky, who thanked her. “That’s the good news,” she said, tempering Bucky’s gratitude with a note of warning. “The bad news is that Maria couldn’t get anything on _Corvinus_.”

 

“It must be a code name,” Clint said. “New enough not to have been documented yet.”

 

“New,” Bucky repeated, thoughtfully. “Or really old.”

 

“But we’ve looked everywhere,” Clint pointed out.

 

Wanda smiled. “Not in the restricted section,” she said in a prim Hermione Granger voice.

 

Clint narrowed his eyes. “Which one of us is Harry and which is Ron? Careful how you answer this.”

 

Wanda opened her mouth as though at some point in the past she’d given this question a lot of thought.

 

“What restricted section?” Bucky interjected.

 

“She’s joking, Bucky. We don’t have a restricted section.”

 

“Actually,” Wanda chipped in, smile bright and mischievous, “we do.”

 

~

 

It turned out that when Maria was drunk on a pitcher of gin, she was the life of the party. It also turned out that when that party was made up of just her and Wanda, singing Fleetwood Mac out of tune and literally out of the window, she stopped being the soul of discretion she was famed for, and the ‘restricted section’ in Fury’s old suite didn’t remain restricted for very long.

 

Two hours later, Bucky still had five hours and thirty three minutes of darkness in which to decide whether to prioritize protecting Steve against Rumlow’s kill order or finally finding some answers to the unknown question of _Corvinus_.

 

Bucky found himself calculating again. Same as every few hours since Steve had come looking for him with a bite and spider venom in his bloodstream.

 

Steve silently watched Bucky’s eyes flick between a box of ammunition and a stack of dusty books.

 

Sighing, Bucky reached for the box.

 

“Feel like making yourself useful?” he invited Steve casually once all the components for silver grenades were laid out across the table between them.

 

Steve’s unimpressed look entertained Bucky no end. “And have you bitch at me for doing it wrong? No thanks.”

 

“You're right. Much better to wait till we're face to face with an army of lycans before we realize you fucked up,” Bucky retorted, feeling a tiny pinch as he bit his bottom lip on an antagonistic grin.

 

The whole exchange missed acidity, bickering tightly wound with a sort of affection, and laced with flirtation. Every time this happened it felt like something was building; a slow but certain unraveling, but it still took Bucky by surprise when Steve’s eyes dipped down to his lips and darkened.

 

For a moment Bucky’s hands hovered uselessly over the fuses as Steve swayed slightly into his gravity. He should laugh it off, or turn away, or pull Steve close and kiss him into the next century.

 

They were flirting, again, and Bucky would have to be the one to stop it, again, all the while wondering whether this time he might just give up and give in and take what he wanted.

 

And he _wanted_. Wanted to let Steve’s warmth heat his skin, seep into his muscles which ached despite inhuman strength and enhanced healing, breathe Steve in and let his inherent goodness sear into his lungs. Oh yes, Bucky wanted. Badly.

 

In the space of one of Steve’s relaxed heartbeats, Bucky considered how bad it would really be just to hand this to someone else to deal with. If it meant he could wave a white flag in Steve’s face and escape this mess of emotions, how terrible could it really be to put his pride aside.

 

Rollins would bite his hand off for a chance at working this. Rollins, with his textbook allegiance to Rumlow. And wasn’t that the problem. If Bucky tapped out, he'd have no control over what happened next. More importantly, he had almost no faith that his body would let him. A few days was clearly long enough to find himself trapped in the magnet of Steve’s heat.

 

Slowly, Bucky dropped his hands, grabbed a fuse in each one and started two workstations. One for Steve and one for him. Slower still, his chest started to fight the constricted, uncomfortable feeling of anxiety.

 

Steve was surveying the table with a confused expression when Bucky pushed another fuse into his pile.

 

“Do you really know how to make bombs?”

 

Bucky blinked his eyes up to fix Steve with a look. “Fuck you.”

 

“I’m not saying you don’t know how to throw them, I just _—_ ”

 

“I’d stop right there if I were you,” Bucky interrupted. “I’m gonna assume from all that…” he paused to indicate Steve’s general location and hoped it conveyed the word _sass_ , “that you're pissing yourself about handling explosives.”

 

“Hey! That’s not it _—_ ”

 

“Relax, we're not making them until Clint gets here.” The piles were complete, save for the last component Clint was sourcing for him. “Maybe you can get him to do it for you.”

 

“I'm not gonna bat my eyelashes at him,” Steve said off-hand, reassessing the materials in front of him like he was already succumbing to Bucky’s challenge and his own pride.

 

A vicious gnaw of something unfamiliar shot up Bucky’s spine and settled uncomfortably under his skin. “No, you're not,” he agreed under his breath, a bratty snap filtering into his voice.

 

With any other person, Bucky might expect the conversation to move on at that point. Considering it was a conversation with Steve however, Bucky was entirely unsurprised that it didn’t.

 

“I wasn’t insulting you,” Steve insisted. “I’ve seen you fight, Bucky. I _know_ you can fight. The way you move…” He cut himself off with an almost imperceptible cough, but Bucky’s skin was already humming at the hint of admiration in Steve’s eyes. “You know what I mean.”

 

Bucky smirked. That half formed sentence could mean a lot of things, but the only thing Bucky was going to take away from all this was the possibility that Steve Rogers had a competence kink.

 

On the other side of the conversation, Bucky was bathing in the brightness of the praise. This constant need for validation was new, and it all started with Steve. While the whole mansion, its many enemies and the other covens too, looked at Bucky like he could make a nation fall to its knees, Steve had stood back and waited for him to prove it, eyes telling him that he could have all the approval he wanted if he just worked for it. And Bucky loved it.

 

Steve studied him carefully. Whatever else he wanted to say was swallowed down when Bucky turned away.

 

“So,” Steve started instead, “What are we doing now?”

 

“Looking through these to see what the hell a Corvinus is.” Bucky sat down with an armful of books and tipped his head to level Steve a sarcastic smile. “I can read too you know,” he simpered before snapping back into a glower.

 

Steve groaned, but he was obviously amused underneath it all. “Sorry,” he started, entirely unrepentant, “but I didn't get a run down on you before all this started. _You_ didn’t come with a user manual.”

 

“Are you on about that file again?” Bucky sniped in a bored tone.

 

There was probably a file about Bucky somewhere too but the thought set an unpleasant squirming under his ribs. Pierce probably had it somewhere, keeping it safe.

 

If Bucky knew where it was, he’d trust only a couple of people with it. That Steve was one of them set off warning bells, but they were ringing someplace very far away. It was easier to bury them under palatable pretences and move the conversation along to safer ground. And besides, Steve could act hard done by, but his file hadn’t been much help besides identifying him.

 

With a sigh, he heard himself mutter, “It didn’t exactly prepare me for you.”

 

Steve’s head jerked up and Bucky bit his tongue. That wasn’t the kind of ‘safer’ he’d imagined. In fact, it was encroaching on seriously dangerous territory.

 

Steve smirked. “Oh really?”

 

After that it was difficult to know what Steve was doing because Bucky had buried his embarrassment in one of the largest reference books. A thick tome, sized A3 and plenty big enough to cover his face. By the time Steve spoke again, Bucky had read the first line of the page eight times and still had no clue what is said.

 

“I’m working you out on my own,” Steve advised him, voice drifting and light. From anyone else's lips, Bucky would take it as a threat.

 

His face hardened defensively anyway. “Really?” he demanded over the top of the page.

 

“Well, the obvious one is that you like Clint—”

 

“Not as much as you’d think,” Bucky cut in flatly because he thought it might stop this where it started, or at least spark a smile.

 

In one regard, he wasn't disappointed.

 

Steve picked up where he left off, lips still curled in a pretty curve that went to Bucky’s head like a hit of adrenalin.

 

“It's an obvious one to start with, but important because you don’t like many people. So the fact that you like Clint and Wanda is top of the list. You also love David Bowie — of the Ziggy Stardust era.” He paused to flick open one of the books. “Whatever it is you keep under your bedroom floorboards and think I didn't notice, is important to you. Probably everything that you don’t want taken from you. What else? You pout when you've got something nice to say but don't want to say it.”

 

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

 

“You download Bryan Cox podcasts and have a designated playlist for when you’re in transport on missions.” Steve looked up so that they would lock eyes. “Also, you might have a stake in a local apple orchard.”

 

“Hunh.” Really, the way Steve continued to surprise him was an embarrassment. But… “Apple orchard?”

 

“I figure it’s more likely that you have a vested interest in apple sales than you just like watching me eat them, right?”

 

Bucky stalled, hands frozen in the motion of closing the rather dubiously ‘untitled’ book in his lap. He briefly wondered how obvious it would be if he opened it right back up again.

 

Steve was smiling, but tentatively. There was an undercurrent of nerves in the way he held himself, as though he was testing the water, unsure if it would provoke Bucky to reinforce his walls or let them cave.

 

Bucky bit his lip and met Steve’s eyes, taking in his slightly lost look like he was so far out on a limb that the strong foundations of his theory must have seemed rooted very far away.

 

Bucky was taking the coward’s way out before he could even feel guilty about it. “The grocer takes cash. Means I don’t leave a paper trail.”

 

His mind was whirring and somewhere on its rotation was the urge to backpedal, placate, draw out a smile instead of a scowl. It burnt the back of his throat and needled his soul. Just when he was about to say something stupid, Steve huffed a humorless laugh, shook his head in disbelief, and saw right through Bucky’s bullshit.

 

It was like Steve had drilled right into his skull. Read his intentions as though they were written in invisible ink and Steve was the only one with a UV blacklight.

 

It frightened Bucky more than anything could. Somehow, it soothed him too.

 

“And,” Steve continued, face flinty and challenging, eyes stormy as he picked up where he left off, “I’m not sure whether given half the chance you might actually let the lycans take me.”

 

Bucky knew instantly that Steve was provoking, lashing out, all the while hating himself for doing it. They were both thinking of a subway station and a hospital ward, and every other time since then when Bucky had protected Steve and his location.

 

Bucky was angry when he snapped, “How can you say that?”

 

“Nothing about this conversation has given me a reason not to.”

 

Bucky didn't know what to say to that, or what to make of Steve’s expression, which was brushed with hurt and lacquered with stubbornness.

 

What he did know was that he was no closer to working out what Romanoff wanted with Steve’s blood. Time was running dry and he was still letting himself get distracted.

 

“You're talking bullshit and you know it,” Bucky said against his better judgment. “No more talking until we've found the word Corvinus.”

 

He shoved a book under Steve’s nose without looking at him.

 

~

 

Bucky tiredly looked at his watch.

 

Following a single rebellious tut, Steve had done exactly what Bucky had asked and buried his head in a book, not once breaking the hush of tandem breaths and rustling pages.

 

Until now.

 

Bored with reading thousands of years of crusty vampires fighting feral wolves — hedonism and decadence, and how the vampires (of course) deserved every moment of it — Bucky dropped the book shut and walked to the open window with a lit cigarette.

 

He was so tired. Tired, cold, frustrated; with the situation and himself. Two hours, three and a half books containing not a single word that resembled the one he was looking for, and one huge distraction sat opposite him. Periodically, Bucky had found his eyes straying from the page to Steve, insides knotting from wanting him so much.

 

Most of the stories were actually fascinating. With nothing else to choose between the two clans, assets equaled power. So naturally, the first recorded battle was for land. A castle on a mountain, banked up with snow preventing both sides from storming it.

 

This much Bucky already knew. The tale was so old, so retold across the covens, it was legendary. A bedtime story for the ages. But after that, the crisp, aged pages of Fury’s book veered from tradition, spinning a tale in which only luck had seen the vampires taking their prize. Victory, in this case, came down to which side of the mountain thawed first. Not the divine right, the superior command or the more intelligent weaponry that the original telling claimed.

 

Bucky had almost crushed the spine of the book when he'd read it, had almost forgotten Steve was in the same room for a second, because true or not, conspiracy or not, Bucky relished the idea that the insipid tradition and archaic arrogance, was just that: all fluff, no substance.

 

But after a while, the first castle merged into the last fortress, and none of it got them closer to finding their spider. They may as well be learning lessons from nursery rhymes, baiting their trap with curds and whey, for all that it got them closer to the Black Widow.

 

Bucky was breathing out his last pull of smoke, resigning himself to a final hour of reading and pretending he wouldn't rather be doing it in Steve's lap, when he felt eyes on his back.

 

It felt good to be wanted. He was used to attention, just not genuine, reciprocated attention, and he was afraid that if he let on that he knew, then Steve would stop.

 

He followed a plane’s wingtip lights in the dark and promised himself that he would turn when they skirted out of view.

 

Steve's voice came out of the blue and blew that promise to high heaven.

 

“How do you make that look so good?”

 

Bucky’s eyes continued to focus on the blinking red light like the air hadn't been ripped out of his lungs.

 

From anyone else it would sound like the cheesiest line, but Steve’s voice was undercut with such sincerity it made Bucky’s fingers dent the windowsill.

 

“Stop,” he said tiredly. He didn't turn, didn't moderate his tone. He let it be bleak and pleading and pressed his head to the glass, which was no colder than his skin. “Stop doing that.”

 

“Doing what?” came Steve's reply, carrying the edge of kicked puppy confusion.

 

“Flirting. I get fed up of bringing us back from it.”

 

“Then don’t,” Steve said simply. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

 

Bucky froze. It felt like the floor had fallen out from underneath him. “What are you talking about?” he asked cautiously, so quietly he wasn't sure if the words would reach Steve. As it happened, they bounced off the glass and skipped across the distance, sounding wary but hopeful even to his own ears.

 

Steve’s gaze landed heavily on him. “Come on, you know exactly what I'm talking about.”

 

Bucky turned then. Felt that same thrill of _maybe_ that he had when Steve had really been after his dagger. He had the same dark eyes, the same hitch to his breath. This time, maybe, there was a chance to find out what they were all about when they weren’t reaching for knives or restraints and just each other.

 

Bucky sucked in a breath. A part of him knew it was dangerous to even entertain the idea of meeting Steve halfway, feeding flirtation with flirtation and caring like it could mean something. With the same conviction, he knew that as much as he still pretended to look at Steve with complete apathy, that he couldn't. That he never really had.

 

He didn't have the chance to pick a side before the words tumbled out on their own. “How do I make _what_ look good?” And he was smiling too. A little thing that said, _You want to play with fire? Fine,_ because, fuck it, they'd been on a collision course since the subway, and Bucky wouldn't be the chickenshit that backed down just because the impact was gonna explode like stars colliding.

 

Steve looked stunned, taken aback that Bucky was playing along, wondering where it would lead. Bucky felt it too. The pressure building up around them, heavy and heated and crackling like a blanket buzzed with static.

 

Steve seemed momentarily lost as to how to answer. Finally he settled on, “Standing, moving. Just about everything,” and looked at Bucky with all the intent of a charged bolt trying to ground itself in Bucky's heart.

 

Bucky felt his lips twitch into a smile. It was an approximation of the flirty, seductive one he hadn't used in god knew how long. He didn't know if it would be as devastating as he wanted it to be, when he needed it to be more than ever before, but then Steve’s eyes blew and his heart rattled up a couple of notches.

 

“We can’t do this,” Bucky advised him. “This is a bad idea. _I’m_ a bad idea.”

 

Deep down in a place Bucky pretended didn't exist, he knew those words would make Steve want him more. It was why he left it at that, why he didn't add, _In the end it will come down to you or me._ It was also why he was looking up through his eyelashes, working that smile a little more.

 

Sure enough, Steve was a little breathless, nervous but ploughing on regardless as his eyes flickered over Bucky’s face. “I think we can,” he said, voice dipping lower, and it had been obscenely deep in the first place.

 

It wasn’t even an argument and it was still the most persuasive thing he could have said.

 

Bucky kissed him then. Rushed the distance to kiss that stupid mouth which kept spilling words that made Bucky want him, words that wound him up, made him angry and lustful and fond in equal measure. Words that made him feel anything and everything when he was only used to feeling numb.

 

Bucky kissed him like he wanted to punch Steve in the face with it, to show him with the way he squeezed Steve’s shoulders how close he was to losing his mind for wanting. He handed it all over through the hard press of lips and made it Steve's problem.

 

It worked, and at the same time, it absolutely failed. Steve was silenced, kissing him back as if it was the best idea he’d ever had. And that really should have been it; spell over, tension broken, moment gone. Thrown back to sense in a flood of rational thought.

 

Only it wasn’t, because rational thought was too busy enjoying the tingle on Bucky’s lips. Too caught up in wrapping itself around the heat building dense and low in his belly, practically purring at the delicious bruise rising where Steve’s hand gripped his hip just the right side of too tight. Rational thought, it seemed, was no help at all. And actually, that was fine by Bucky, who couldn’t stop now even if he tried.

 

Steve’s kisses were desperate, biting, meeting Bucky’s tongue and licking over it as a finger hooked on his collar, drawing him in and pulling him flush against the hard lines and soft curves of his body.

 

The moan Bucky let slip ricocheted off the walls, filling his ears and pouring heat through his veins to settle in all the places that made him need to fall apart. He bit off the moan just as Steve gave a full body shiver. The sound must have done things for Steve that made his hands a bit rougher, had him turning Bucky in a half circle so his back was to the wall, pushing him up against the brick and pressing the air out of his lungs, never once letting an inch of space between them.

 

And Bucky didn't do a damn thing to stop him.

 

His hands blindly travelled up Steve’s back, fisting his t-shirt to hold Steve in place as though he was starved for it. Very far away, a little voice reminded him that Riley would surely have heard the sound of his back hitting the wall with a low thud, but with the touch of Steve’s hands burning through cotton and branding his skin, Bucky honestly didn’t fucking care.

 

“Bucky,” Steve rasped into his mouth, breath hot and delicious against his lips, voice dragging like a spoon through treacle.

 

Bucky’s immediate response was another low moan, a hungry sound that Steve fed back to him with the next kiss, only for Bucky to gasp it away again when he found himself pinned in place by Steve’s hips. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been so worked up from a kiss.

 

“You're an idiot,” he breathed out into Steve’s mouth. “This is so fucking stupid.”

 

Steve moved closer regardless, burying his hands in Bucky’s hair, the stiff line of his cock a delicious pressure against Bucky’s stomach.

 

Instinctively, Bucky’s hips arched forward, spine locking in a tight curve. The sudden friction on his dick sparked a streak of fire down his spine that eclipsed everything else, even the frantic drum in his head was wiped blank with the kind of peace he only felt when his feet hit solid ground after a rooftop jump.

 

Just when Bucky was starting to appreciate not needing to break for oxygen, Steve was forced to pull away for a ragged, gasping breath. He didn’t go far, stayed as close as he could while he caught his breath. It wasn’t until Bucky felt his whole body relax that he realized he’d been worried Steve would take the break from the drugging slide of lips and bodies to come to his senses and jerk away with second thoughts.

 

But Steve was still there, still pressed against him, pupils dilated so that his eyes were two thin circlets of bright color. His tiny smile was awed and encouraging, chest rising and falling like Bucky had stolen the air right from his lungs. It was enough to assure Bucky that he could lean back in to kiss the shine off his lips and that it would most definitely be welcomed.

 

The thrill in Bucky’s gut was building and burning as he slowly swayed closer, palms falling on Steve's chest, but then there was a floorboard creaking by the door, a hand on the door knob, and Bucky jumped back before Steve could try to stop him.

 

In the split second before the door opened, Bucky took in Steve’s hurt expression, his panting breaths, and the way his eyes were at their most intense just before he heard the cursory knock against the door — the kind of knock that comes right before someone walks in heedless of whatever they might be ruining — and the lust and confusion on Steve’s face was shocked out by clarity.

 

Without a word, Steve forced his way between Bucky and the threat opening the door, one palm on Bucky’s stomach and the other a sharp fist by his own hip.

 

Bucky's glare at being cosseted was nothing but automatic. Normally he’d be spitting fire at a stunt like that, but behind the force of his scowl, he was gritting his teeth against the way he liked the shadow of Steve’s protective hands and the way Steve’s shoulder overlapped his own.

 

Stepping through the door, Sam surveyed the scene.

 

“Easy,” he said as he eyed Steve’s bristling form. If he'd picked up on Steve's racing heart or Bucky’s kiss bitten lips, puffy and red and still tingling, then he was too polite to say anything. Chances were that he had, but his eyes purposely stayed above waist level and for that Bucky was grateful.

 

There was an easy smile on Sam’s face that Bucky wasn't sure he’d ever seen before. Apparently it was directed entirely at Steve because when he turned to Bucky it slid surprisingly quickly. “Barnes,” he nodded solemnly.

 

Charming.

 

Bucky raised an expectant eyebrow.

 

“Thought you’d want to know that Rollins is on your tail,” Sam said, a flinty tone slipping through the professionalism. “He called us in. I sent him running in circles, but he knows something’s up.”

 

“Alright, head back. But Riley stays.”

 

Bucky reached over to grab his phone from the windowsill, unwilling to admit he’d rather stretch than move away from the heat of Steve’s side.

 

“May as well take this with you,” he said, throwing the cell ever so slightly wide of Sam, just enough to be annoying. “It’s bugged. Take the scenic route back, turn it on and drop it off in the reservoir. That’ll keep them amused.”

 

“And what will you be doing?” Sam asked, demeanor landing closer to confrontation than curiosity.

 

Bucky’s glare hardened. “I gave you an order. ‘Affirmative’ is the response you’re looking for, soldier.”

 

He didn’t realize until the syllables was already forming that Pierce’s words were coming out of his mouth. They didn’t sound right off Bucky’s lips. Haughty, and completely unfair seeing as Sam hadn’t done anything to deserve Bucky’s hostility other than being admirably wary and finding himself in the unfortunate position of interrupting something he would probably have preferred to avoid.

 

There was an aching sensation under Bucky’s skin, something grinding like bones jarring against each other. He found he couldn’t meet Steve’s eyes as he quickly excused himself to the tiny ammo room and shut the door behind him with a firm click.

 

With his back to the door, he had no intention of letting himself think about Steve, the kiss or his own unfair treatment of Sam. Instead he forced his focus on the options in front of him: he could either stick with the weapons he had — small but concealable — and load up on replacement clips, or swap — high impact but obvious — and spend time he didn’t have checking that the weapons were free of small but potentially hazardous glitches.

 

Or — and he really shouldn’t even consider this one — he could eavesdrop on the conversation outside.

 

It was really out of his hands when he could re-arm and listen at the same time.

 

“When are you going to tell me that story about why you don’t like him?” Steve was asking Sam.

 

There was a silence so long, Bucky thought Sam might be committed to it, then he broke it with an almost imperceptible exhale. “I don’t _not_ like him. I just don’t trust him.”

 

Bucky knew it wasn't the first time Steve and Sam had spoken, but there was an ease about the way they talked that struck Bucky as odd considering they barely knew each other. Bucky often resented how easy it was for some people to make friends. Now he just felt empty.

 

There was another pause, a tiny smile in Sam’s voice when he observed, “You seem to trust him alright.”

 

The statement hovered unacknowledged. In the unbearable din of Steve’s silence, Bucky accidentally crushed a clip in his metal hand. He winced. His hearing was better than most — the upshot of taking a bite from an elder — but he was pretty sure Sam would have heard that.

 

“Yeah, I trust him,” Steve replied steadily.

 

In the vault, Bucky’s heart took a tumble. His heart didn’t even work, but in this at least, Bucky guessed he was still only human.

 

Outside, there was a rustle of movement. A floorboard creaked as Steve shifted his weight, still unused to his size, and the traffic hummed on the street below.

 

“You freaked out yet?” Sam asked.

 

Steve laughed. “You been waiting?”

 

“Yeah,” Sam said, laughter merging with Steve's. “Normally people freak at seeing an immortal, let alone becoming one. Let alone spending every waking minute with one.”

 

“Sam,” Steve chastised gently.

 

Apparently Sam was going to say his piece whatever Steve’s face and voice were doing. Bucky was actually pretty impressed that Sam could ignore that thing about Steve that made you want to listen. To behave. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Yeah, that was probably just Bucky.

 

“Normally,” Sam said, because he apparently didn't swing from pushing his luck to wanting to make Steve happy like Bucky did, “it doesn't take this long to find out that Barnes is more dangerous than he is pretty.”

 

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Steve said, voice low.

 

This time, Bucky just about saved the grenade in his hand.

 

“Hey look, I’m just checking you know what you’re doing.”

 

Steve seemed to settle at Sam’s genuinely concerned voice. Or at least, Bucky couldn’t hear him grinding his teeth anymore. “Yeah, I know.” A few moments later, he asked, “Does he really need to do this? The thing with Stane, I mean.”

 

“Barnes knows what he's doing. Nobody else will even know he was there.” The generous sentiment was obviously intended for Steve’s reassurance as opposed to stroking Bucky’s ego, but Bucky preferred it that way.

 

“If I asked, would you tell me why you don’t trust him?”

 

“That's a story for another day,” Sam answered. “A day when he isn't listening through the door.”

 

Bucky swore.

 

He was already burned, so he didn’t bother waiting around as if he didn’t know that both Steve and Sam’s eyes would be trained on him the moment he walked out.

 

As he moved towards them, he met their eyes, daring them to comment. It was a mistake, because as soon as his gaze landed on Steve, something fizzed in his bloodstream. Steve looked as though he might jump on Bucky at any second, and Bucky would let him.

 

Feeling Sam’s sharp stare, he stopped a good body length away from Steve, keeping out of range and out of reach.

 

“Bucky, I need to talk to you,” Steve started.

 

“Not now,” Bucky said quickly, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye.

 

“No… look.” Steve moved sideways to grab the book he’d been reading before they… Bucky blinked out the stars, before they’d... _dammit_.

 

Startled, Bucky took the book from Steve’s hand, eyes drawn to a complicated family tree and a page of Romanian script. Steve’s fingertip came to rest by the title, _Corvinus Bloodline_.

 

“Thank god,” Bucky sighed. At least something was going right. “I’ll read it when I get back from Stane’s.”

 

“What does it mean?” Steve asked. When Bucky was too absorbed in scanning the page, Steve’s tone dropped to a mock warning, “Don't make me use google translate.”

 

Bucky forgot himself, and the situation, and snorted. “I wouldn't dare.” He looked up and passed the book back to Steve. “I'll talk to you later, okay?”

 

Judging by Steve’s tight nod, he understood that Bucky was talking about more than translation. “Yeah,” he said, eyes flicking to Sam and back. “Don't get yourself killed in the meantime.”

 

The thinly veiled concern cleared Bucky’s sky. His mind settled and his skin tingled. If Steve didn't stop, it would make Bucky say all sorts of shit, and all of it true. There lie things much worse than dragons. Things like consequences. There were always consequences.

 

Steve’s words echoed in the back of Bucky's head as he let the door slip shut and headed out to meet Clint.


	7. VII: Blood memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone reading this and a special thank you to anyone who has left kudos or a comment. I really appreciate it!

**VII: Blood memories**

 

 **'** _The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.' ―_ Ernest Hemingway

 

~

“What's gotten into you?” Clint demanded when Bucky stepped out onto the street with the remains of a Steve-inspired smile. “You don't seem your usual brand of cold and unapproachable.”

 

“That was yesterday,” Bucky retorted, popping his collar against the cold and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Today I’m going for irritated and apathetic.”

 

Clint chuckled, but the sound was bleak and it soured Bucky’s good mood. Falling into step, Clint said, “You're lying. And badly.”

 

“I'm not lying,” Bucky lied brilliantly. He picked up the pace but not quick enough to avoid Clint’s comeback.

 

“Hopeful and horny, more like.”

 

Bucky wanted to scowl but just ended up sighing. The ripples of Steve’s kiss were following him as he walked, getting stronger the further he went as if the waves of it were gathering momentum. He could still feel the catch of Steve’s fingers flexing in his hair, tugging then soothing, could see the gloss of lust shining in the blue of Steve's eyes as clear as if he was right there in front of him.

 

The kiss had been just what Bucky had intended in the split second before he'd initiated it, but it was dangerously close to something he’d simultaneously feared and hoped it could be.

 

If all he’d wanted was a hurried, messy dry hump against a wall, a quick and dirtily satisfying hook up, then there was a whole city of guys on his doorstep. But it wasn't all he wanted from Steve by far. He guessed he'd take what he could get though.

 

Perhaps it was for the best then that Sam had interrupted them.

 

“He doesn't like me very much,” Bucky commented as the last dying degrees of warmth seeped out of his bones.

 

“For the record, which of your many enemies are we talking about here?”

 

Bucky kept his gaze straight ahead, the child in him refusing to say the name. Behind the chill in his eyes, he was thinking of Sam’s hard stare and almost every interaction they'd had since day one.

 

Clint snorted. “When you’re all grown up, we’ll talk.”

 

Bucky exhaled quickly. “Sam. He doesn't like me.”

 

“No, he doesn't,” Clint agreed cheerfully.

 

“You know why?” Bucky asked, annoyed now and possibly caring more than he initially thought.

 

“You remember that business with Sitwell? You, Riley, some other dude from security and a couple of your death dealer chums were on that IBM mission. Shit went to hell. I remember because you dragged me along to play look out.”

 

The worry lines on Bucky’s head felt like they were digging in for the foreseeable future. It wasn't that the mission had gone wrong, though if Clint said it had then Bucky believed him, it was that he couldn't get a hold of the memory clearly enough to form his own opinion.

 

Snatches of it appeared and disappeared in his head, silvery and slipping through his fingertips, shaking like those films shot through nauseating hand-held cameras, and cutting too fast to see almost anything at all.

 

The fragments trembled in the same way that the cliff-top house did.

 

“You really remember that far back?” he asked Clint skeptically.

 

“I know I don’t have all your abilities, but everyone gets the photographic memory.”

 

Bucky blinked, almost stumbled a step. It was the first he'd heard of this photographic memory that apparently every vampire was meant to possess. Clint’s words chipped away at his head, a sound that struck like hammer and chisel against bone.

 

“How photographic? I mean… you seem to remember it _really_ clearly.”

 

Clint gave him a puzzled look for a second too long to be comfortable, probably wondering what part of _photographic memory_ Bucky was confused about.

 

“Well, I wish I didn't,” the blond grouched. “I lost my lucky bow that night.”

 

Bucky was still lost in anxiety. It took everything he had to laugh through it. “You had a lucky bow? How the hell could I have forgotten that?” he said in a tight voice, forcing his legs to start moving again.

 

Looking as far from embarrassed as a person could be, Clint tracked back to the point of the conversation. “Yeah, lucky bow. What of it? Anyway, you took his boy into that clusterfuck and now Sam doesn’t trust you.”

 

Giving up on the shaking silhouette of the Sitwell in his broken, definitely _not_ photographic memory, Bucky patted down his pockets for his cigarette packet. “Okay, but who’s Sam’s boy again?”

 

Clint made an incredulous noise. “Jesus, Bucky. Riley, you fucking idiot.”

 

Groaning, Bucky gave up on the cigarettes too. “Gotcha.”

 

Whatever it was that Bucky did wrong on that mission, he couldn't accept that he would’ve knowingly put Riley’s life at risk. He didn't ask Clint. He wasn't prepared to admit exactly how hazy the memory was for him, and if Clint had been on watch outside, he probably didn't know first-hand anyway.

 

The fields started to make way for the imposing, crass box of Stane’s contemporary townhouse. It made no sense in this landscape until you realized that that was the exact point of it. Stane’s little ego trip was a nice little fuck you to the local planning authority.

 

“So,” Bucky said calmly but quietly because he wasn't so confident in his own abilities that it wasn't prudent to apply just a little stealth as they approached the building, “... by ‘his boy,’ are we saying _—_ ’”

 

“Get the door open, Bucky,” Clint muttered impatiently.

 

Smiling, Bucky bent to jimmy open the lock. While he did, Clint pulled at his bottom lip and blew out a sharp breath. “So we have no leads and we need to get to Romanoff before Rumlow,” he whispered speculatively. “How should we be feeling about this?”

 

“Confident but not comfortable,” Bucky whispered back. “And we might have a lead now. I'll explain later.”

 

Clint nodded, resting a hand on his glock. "And how are we feeling about this?” he inclined his head to the door.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Then why are we breaking in? It's not like he's not expecting us.”

 

“Well, yes,” Bucky conceded as the catch gave way and the door opened an inch. “But he's not expecting us to break in. And I don't want him comfortable or confident.” He looked up. “Saying that, he'll have reinforcements in there with him.”

 

“Nope. All down,” Clint smirked, a mockery of innocence.

 

Bucky grinned. “You lead the questionning.”

 

Clint’s smile screwed up. “You know I hate leading.”

 

And he did, Bucky conceded. He hated it right up to the point where he could tell his French archer story. Bucky never felt bad when Clint started to grin around the threat of it, and besides, Bucky always found the surveillance bugs quicker than Clint did.

 

~

 

Rounding the corner into Stane’s study, they found the vampire reigning over a spread of maps and papers.

 

Bucky liked that he had his back to them.

 

“We're early,” Clint called out, relaxed as he looked around the room. “Thought we'd let ourselves in.”

 

Stane jumped a foot and spun to face them with wide eyes that looked so out of place on a vampire so huge in stature.

 

He bolted for the door the next second. Bucky halted his escape with his shoulder, satisfied when he bounced back into the desk.

 

Almost immediately the big man was laughing it off, pulling himself up, straightening his back and broadening his shoulders then tugging at his offensively overpriced harlequin-colored suit. There was a chance he thought the arrogance would hide his fear, and Bucky found he didn't have the heart to sneer — Stane wasn't the only one forced to keep up appearances these days.

 

Bucky cleared his throat when Stane’s hand was an inch from the desk drawer, no doubt reaching for a weapon. Stane looked up, the ghost of his laugh still hovering on his face, and stalled, huge fingers looming over the delicate brass handle.

 

“That's not normally how you do business is it?” Clint threw into the charged pause. He held the suitcase of cash up. “We're all set here.”

 

Greed flickered across Stane’s eyes, and it had him switching his hand’s trajectory to a padlocked box on the desk.

 

“Do youngsters not use doorbells anymore?” he chuckled, like any of them would be convinced he was unfazed. Like any of them really thought their age had anything to do with anything. Technically, Bucky was probably older than him anyway.

 

He placed the box on a low table between them, making space between decanters of whiskey, bottles of wine and blood, and held out a hand for the suitcase. “Come on now, boys. Don't make me regret this.”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes and began scanning the room. He was really starting to tire of that sinister grandpa laugh. On the other side of the room, Stane was pressing a buzzer that would have exactly no-one coming to his rescue.

 

As Bucky pulled out a wall light and ripped a listening device from behind it, he heard the drag of two cases being drawn closer to their new owners.

 

Stane’s eyes raked over the money, then darted back up to Clint with a shark's smile. “I don't need to check this do I?”

 

Bucky swung round, face sliding into something dangerous, tasting blood as his canines instinctively extended and caught his lip.

 

But Clint had the situation covered. “I don't know,” he replied conversationally, drawing the crossbow and aiming it at Stane’s head, “Do I need to check _this_?”

 

That was the point at which Stane really started to waver. Bucky had witnessed some bigger and more grandiose threats, but Clint had hit the right note on the right day and it worked perfectly.

 

Bucky was unduly pleased with himself for making Clint so cranky on the way over. Steve’s eyes were still in his thoughts, hazy blue like he was in soft focus. If he'd had to do this himself it might be the first time he’d ever felt guilty about it. But then, Bucky thought as his eyes dragged over Stane and his distinct lack of morals, Steve would probably be quite comfortable doing it himself.

 

Stane was rubbing at his beard when he turned to Bucky, spotting the gun he’d reflexively drawn. “Nobody ever tell your pal that bullets don't work on vampires?” he smirked at Clint.

 

Bucky sighed. _Come on Barnes, you do this all the time._

 

He hummed dreamily, ejecting the magazine to show luminous-blue liquid rounds. “What about UV ones?” he lilted.

 

Stane’s jaw dropped. “How did you get those?”

 

“I almost got shot with one,” Bucky snapped. “Who’s your buyer?”

 

So, Stane confessed. It was a pretty sorry confessional when Bucky was playing the part of priest, and when Stane looked like absolution was the last thing on his mind.

 

Stane’s act of contrition came in the form of electronic transaction records, handwritten ledgers, and photos of himself with Romanoff that he'd had taken for insurance purposes. One look at those prints, the camera angle and dates, and Bucky knew they would be next to useless in that regard. The burden of proof would be on Stane, and Romanoff had carefully orchestrated it so that those photos would be laughed out of any court, lycan or vampire, if she denied it. She was clever that way.

 

What they still didn't know was where she was or what she wanted with Steve. Exhausting the first line of questioning with only a couple of meet locations and a few flimsy sightings, Clint moved on to the second.

 

As Bucky moved around the room, he caught snippets of Clint spinning his tried and tested Agincourt archer story. It was a take on the myth that before the battle of Agincourt six hundred years ago, the French threatened to catch the English archers and brutally cut off their bow fingers. On winning the battle, the archers stuck their fingers up to show they still had them. Bucky had heard Clint’s embellished version dozens of times before, but his friend’s enthusiasm never failed to make him smile.

 

By the time Clint was halfway through the story, Stane had a couple of broken fingers, a gash by his right hip, and was cracking again. Finishing his scan of the room, Bucky tuned back in for the moral-threat-moral sandwich that Clint always liked to end with.

 

“So the victorious archers waved their bow fingers at the French. A fuck you to their enemies for ever thinking they could capture and mutilate them. To show they wouldn’t be caught. And that they’d always be dangerous.” He waggled his index and middle finger in Stane’s face, who was still periodically looking to the door for back-up that wouldn’t come. “Point is, I could spend the rest of your life in shooting range of you and you'd never be able to stop the kill shot.”

 

Visibly steeling himself, Stane snarled. “And what happened to those archers? When they were eventually caught, amputated of two digits and no means of defense?”

 

Clint huffed a laugh. “Eh, that's what crossbows are for.” He patted his new toy reverently.

 

“She needs Rogers,” Stane spat out quickly. “Look, I'll tell you the whole story, just take your goddamn boot off my hand,” he growled.

 

Clint eased the pressure a fraction. “The whole story,” he warned.

 

“A heavily edited version,” Bucky added quickly, checking his watch.

 

“He's not the only one she's been after. There has to have been at least a dozen before him. Whatever it is she wanted, they didn't have it. She's convinced Rogers does.”

 

“What does he have that she could possibly want?’

 

“She's amassing an army,” he ground out. “Use your brain, boy.”

 

A hiss cut through the room when Bucky’s hand grabbed his torn flesh and dug into his hip bone.

 

“What does he have that she could possibly want?’ Clint repeated slowly.

 

“It's not what he has. It's what he is.” Stane cushioned his damaged side with his slightly less damaged hand, clearly past the point of bravado. “She thinks he's compatible.”

 

“With what?”

 

Stane cracked a wry laugh. “I've been trying to find that out myself. All you need to worry about is the lycan army coming to knock down your mansion gate.”

 

“Armed to the back teeth, no thanks to you,” Bucky said from behind Stane’s head, making the vampire flinch.

 

“Forget the kid,” Stane advised tiredly. “The others failed the experiments, he will too.”

 

Bucky’s eyes snapped to Clint’s, hand smacking down hard between Stane’s neck and shoulder blade, and ignored the throaty cry.

 

He leant down to Stane’s ear. “What experiments?”

 

~

 

Clint had gone on ahead, taking great delight in making Stane watch him walk both weapons and money out the door.

 

Bucky stayed to tip the table, sending it crashing to the floor with every one of its liquor bottles. Dropping a lit match, he ducked through the window before the first alcohol-fuelled spark caught.

 

Across the other side of the city and climbing the bottom flight of stairs to the safe house, he could hear a scuffle and Riley’s uncharacteristically stressed voice.

 

“Come on, Steve. You need to get back inside.”

 

“The fuck I will. Where's Bucky? He should have been back by now. Is he safe?”

 

A half second later, Bucky heard Clint on the step behind him. “You incognito?”

 

Bucky cast a glance over his shoulder. “What are you on about?”

 

“That smile you’re wearing — it ain’t yours.”

 

“I’m not smiling,” Bucky said, but in the transition from smile to scowl, he realized Clint had been right.

 

Clint shrugged. “Looks good on you.”

 

Blinking in surprise, Bucky watched Clint step ahead of him and followed the line of sight to find Steve, ramrod straight, body undoubtedly coiled with tension as he stared Riley down with a thunderously protective glare.

 

“He's here,” Clint said when he reached Steve. “Not a scratch on him.”

 

Steve caught Bucky’s eyes and his whole body relaxed like the tension was literally sluicing away.

 

They watched each other, hesitant, cautious, caught in the riptide of a subway fight, a getaway car, and everything that led up to the night’s unfinished kiss. Neither seemed in a rush to look away.

 

“Can I suggest that you all move out of the hallway?” Riley ventured after a sufficiently awkward silence. “Mrs Ruffle might come out at any mo—”

 

Bucky cut him off with a groan. “You're right, let's go.”

 

Steve stepped aside to let him pass with a small smile, but stopped him with a hand on his arm before he could get through the doorway. “Wait,” he said, frown forming. “You're bleeding.”

 

The brush of Steve's fingers on his arm soothed across his skin, little wakes of sensation through his whole body. It made Bucky jerk back then press forward for more, reconnecting his bicep with Steve’s fingertips. The heavy pulse in Steve’s veins tapped a rapidly spiraling foxtrot against Bucky’s skin.

 

Gasping when he realized what he was doing, Bucky tore his eyes away from where they were fixated on the pale blue lines running down Steve’s neck, tripping over collarbones and skirting under his collar.

 

Bucky cleared his throat and mumbled, “It’s umm… it's not mine.”

 

Reading his face for a few more seconds, Steve nodded and walked into the apartment, releasing Bucky’s arm only for it to be grabbed by Clint.

 

“When did you last feed?” he asked in an urgent, hushed voice.

 

Bucky said nothing, resolutely refrained from looking up and right while he formed a lie. Before he could open his mouth though, Clint sighed. “Thought so. We shouldn’t be here.” Despite all that, he entered the apartment and led the way to the kitchenette counter.

 

“I made you tea,” Steve said abruptly, landing a mug in front of Bucky.

 

Bucky's head snapped from mug to Steve. So did Clint’s — not because the statement included him but because it kind of didn't.

 

Noticing Clint’s outrageously offended face, Steve indicated over his shoulder. “I’ll boil more water. Didn’t know you were coming.”

 

Clint hummed. “Don’t worry,” he responded, brandishing a bottle of liquor. “I’m all set.”

 

It was as good a time as any to update Steve on the intel from Stane. Recounting the episode didn't plug the gaping holes in Stane’s story but there was enough to work with and Bucky was convinced they’d gotten all they could from him — Stane wasn’t the kind of person to go down with someone else’s ship.

 

What they knew was sketchy, but enough to confirm that Romanoff was building her army of lycans, and had already bought or stolen enough UV bullets to count as a serious threat to Bucky’s coven. They’d also narrowed down the motive for her sideline of stalking humans: the pursuit of lab rats for experimentation. For what gain, Bucky didn’t know, but it was certain she was after Steve’s blood.

 

Steve paled slightly at this, but otherwise he took the news surprisingly well.

 

Bucky shook his head absently. “It doesn’t make sense though.”

 

“Who says it has to make sense?” Clint upended the bottle, taking a long pull of liquor.

 

“We've read his blood work, there was nothing there.” Bucky took one look at Clint and corrected himself. “ _I've_ read his blood work. And there was nothing there.” He looked to Steve. “Do you know something we don't?”

 

“The doctors took a lot of blood tests when I was sick, so all the time, but the tests only confirmed that I was as sick as they thought I was. And that I’m AB negative.”

 

Clint smirked. “A rare and delicious blood type, but sorry to say, not that extraordinary.”

 

“I’m perfectly happy being unextraordinary,” Steve informed him before tagging on, “Also, that’s creepy.”

 

Bucky ducked his head because Clint was right: Steve’s blood was a torment, but that probably shouldn’t have been the part of his statement Bucky was so focused on.

 

Steve turned to Bucky then. “If there was something to know about my blood, I feel like I'd already know about it.”

 

“You didn’t know it was the fine dining of the blood groups,” Bucky sniped, _and that it smells like wood chips and bittersweet torture,_ “but then you also thought there was nothing to know about vampires and werewolves. And here we fucking are.”

 

Steve did a distinctly unimpressed double take. “What's gotten into you?” he demanded. The question was so reasonable it was agonizing.

 

Under the focus of that look and that tone, Bucky shivered. “I'm just…” _Tetchy,_ _jittery, feeling like claws are injecting an unbearable itch into every pore._ Bucky jabbed his teeth into his bottom lip. _Thirsty._

 

He chose, “Sorry,” instead. The word was easier to say than he thought it would be, and maybe it was because he genuinely meant it, but by Steve and Clint’s expressions you might have thought the word would have him dropping dead at any second.

 

He took several calming breaths, and found a distraction in the light glinting off Clint’s bottle. “Thought you said you'd never drink that stuff,” he observed, snatching the drink for himself.

 

“Yeah, well.”

 

Bucky wasn’t sure why Clint didn’t come right out and say, _You’ve driven me to it._ He wouldn’t normally deny himself the pleasure. He did, however, retrieve the flask when Bucky was too busy watching Steve’s profile to keep his guard up.

 

Apparently too tired or too lazy to move, Clint remained close even when the bottle was back in his hand. Bucky thought nothing of the way Clint leant into his space like nobody else would even try, but Steve’s gaze was fervently assessing and disproportionately pissed seeing as it officially had absolutely nothing to do with him how close Clint sat.

 

Steve's eyes lingered at the point of contact a beat too long and Bucky ducked his head until he felt his cheeks cool. It all lasted a brief moment. A flush on his immortal skin was always short lived, and by the time Bucky looked up, the jealous tension in Steve’s frame was gone.

 

It hadn't been that obvious. Bucky was probably the only one that noticed.

 

“What's going on?” Clint groaned.

 

Bucky pushed away the insinuation with a roll of his eyes.

 

“Something happened here, and I'm suddenly feeling uncomfortably sober.”

 

“You don’t look it,” Bucky said, snarking just to take the heat off Steve’s red face and the way he'd tried to take a sip from an empty mug. Mercifully, Clint let it go without comment and focused his attention on Bucky.

 

“Steve found this,” Bucky said quickly, pushing the book, Corvinus bloodline open and waiting, in Clint’s direction.

 

“Not the sort of ‘something happened’ that I meant.”

 

“Well that's what happened,” Bucky retorted. If he was harsher that time, Clint sort of deserved it.

 

Clint tugged the book towards himself with a slow blink, and started tracing the lines of ancestry with his finger.

 

“This might be a bad time, but I've got a plan,” Steve said, voice dangerously steady.

 

Bucky wasn't having any of it. “Oh yeah?” he challenged over his shoulder. “Care to tell me where it falls on a sliding scale between one and suicide?”

 

“We've gotta do something,” Steve responded quickly, firmer now and turning to face him. “Full moon’s in a couple of days. Also, it's a good plan. Don't knock it till you've heard it.”

 

Bucky folded his arms across his chest. “People with good plans don't start by saying, ‘This is probably a bad time.’ What you're actually saying is, ‘This is a bad plan — brace yourself.’” He sucked his lips into a fierce pout. “Well I'm braced. Knock yourself out.”

 

Without blinking, Steve said, “You're going to let the lycans take me.”

 

Jesus fucking christ.

 

“I'm serious.”

 

“I know. That's what I'm afraid of.”

 

Before Bucky starting shouting like every atom in his body was demanding, he looked over to see if Clint was on form to back him up.

 

Clint just shrugged. “Full moon in two days, man.” He got up to leave, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder then looking to Bucky. “Whatever you decide, move fast.”

 

“This is a monumentally bad idea,” Bucky hissed low enough for just Clint to hear, the line of his body tense with agitation.

 

Meeting his eyes, Clint smiled wryly. “So was he.” He kindly let the dust settle on that one while Bucky found no argument for the defense, then sighed. “Come on, let's get back to the mansion. You need to take your inhibitors or feed.”

 

Bucky bit his lip, so close to just coming right out and saying, _I want to be alone with Steve._ The words tilted on the tip of his tongue for the longest time, but it wasn't that Clint didn't get it, it was that he did. It was a huge risk leaving Steve alone with a hungry vampire, even if that vampire was your oldest friend. Even if you'd trust that friend with your immortal life.

 

Because Steve wasn't invincible, and the quiet, controlled whisper inside Bucky that always called for Steve’s blood was spiraling into a wild scream.

 

He could last a bit longer. Long enough.

 

“Go on ahead.”

 

Clint looked like he might argue.

 

Bucky didn't take his eyes from his cup as he delivered assurances that he'd follow along soon. If there was a choice between the unassuming, charitable silence of his tea, and Clint who'd known Bucky long enough to make a perfectly accurate judgment, it wasn't much of a contest.

 

Clint’s departure was overlaid with an obvious reluctance and the handing over of alcohol, which Bucky whipped from his outstretched hand with enthusiasm. The door shutting behind him reverberated around Bucky’s skull, finishing up as a throbbing ache behind his forehead.

 

He should have left too. He really should have left. The craving was pulling him down, making his hands clench around the bottle he was burying himself in.

 

It was always harder to keep control when it got like this, when it was just impulses darting through his head; flashes of electric blue hunger, hot lust, and _right_ _now_.

 

Outwardly, he made sure he appeared calm. Nobody had ever seen through the veneer. No-one. Except, of course, Steve.

 

Just being close to him soothed his mind's chatter, but the payoff was brutal. Steve’s scent was a heady rush, the thud of his heartbeat a drip in Bucky’s veins, a steady rap that sounded like a ticking clock. The urge to lick across Steve’s pulse point, drag his teeth over his throat, and just _bite_ , flooded his senses and didn’t fade away.

 

He palmed the bottle in his hands. The fiery slide of liquor did nothing to quench the thirst, his hands may as well have been shaking as he tipped the bottle against his lips. His legs might as well have been fidgeting, his fingers fumbling for a cigarette, his mouth taking a drag as though his life depended on it, and it still wouldn't have been any more obvious.

 

“Bucky...” the voice was low and encouraging, far away but getting closer, drawing him back into the room. “Why do you hate them?”

 

When the question hit Bucky’s ears, he felt a sharp snap, the old familiar stab of hatred.

 

“Lycans hate us. We hate them. Our species can't coexist,” he recited dutifully. Then the venom spilled from his lips. “They're animals. They kill for the sake of killing. Rip their prey apart. Rip lives apart.”

 

He was veering so close to home, hot, angry tears shining in his eyes, and for a moment he saw Steve in duplicate.

 

“Look at me.” A palm wrapped around Bucky’s cheek to tip his head up, but there was no need because Bucky's eyes were already lifting, snapping to attention as soon as the soft command left Steve’s lips. “You look… god, I don't even know. Are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” he answered, choosing a calm tone that hid any inflection to the contrary.

 

A phantom smile wavered on his face, but by the time Bucky was confident that it was picture perfect, it seemed that Steve had had enough. “No, you’re not. What’s wrong?”

 

Bucky sighed heavily. “I’m touched by your concern,” he said dryly, “but I’ve been looking after myself for years.”

 

“Noted,” Steve said, eyes burning and intent, “but now you need to tell me what the hell happened. The real reason you hate them.”

 

The high pitched scream in Bucky’s head told him to tune Steve out and keep the words in. He hid his eyes under their lashes, waiting for Steve to let the subject drop. When he didn’t, Bucky wasn’t sure why he’d expected any different.

 

“Tell me,” he pressed, gentle but firm, and brooking no argument, his fingers like safety on Bucky’s skin. “Bucky. What’s the real reason?”

 

 _The real reason._ Bucky grit his teeth, chest constricting around the emptiness, because the real reason was something he’d never spoken about, even to Clint. The real reason, when he eventually found the words to start, would come with an unspoken plea that Steve wouldn’t pity him for it, excuse or absolve him because of it. The real reason concerned a run-down house on a cliff, and death.

 

Steve rocked slightly on his toes, jaw clenched, but he was waiting Bucky out.

 

Exhaling, feeling his heart pour out with it, Bucky stared into the dark void outside the window. His eyes were burning, stomach clenching and his mind thought that maybe he was falling.

 

***

 

_He’d once been told he could sleep through anything. It had sounded about right, so he’d shrugged the accusation away and smiled the remainder of it into a compliment._

 

_Most nights he’d stay up with the stars, leaning on the frame of his attic room window looking out over the cliff at the sky, salt from the sea air layering in his hair. On every one of the mornings that followed, he blocked out the gulls’ ugly song and slept while the sun’s heat burnt through the clouds to paint the sky bright. His father called it the best part of the day, but Bucky had never cared much for it back then._

 

_One particular morning it had taken his mother forty minutes and the smell of bacon to rouse him for work._

 

_Bucky could sleep through anything. But on the night of that one particular morning, he didn’t._

 

_There was a scream breaking through the floorboards beneath his bed. A nightmare that woke him, but once shocked awake, it felt real; the pounding terror, the agony of paralysis._

 

_His heart thundered when his sister’s screams turned into shrieks of white, cold terror, so loud she could have been screaming in his face._

 

_He felt like his chest would break when the shrieks magnified; he fisted the bed sheets and lost his breath when they abruptly, viciously stopped._

 

_Then the next scream started._

 

_Running towards the sound, his hummingbird heart rattling quicker than his body could take, he found his sister on the stairs. He couldn't see her skin for blood, couldn't find a pulse, or a heartbeat, only the breeze of her last exhale against his cheek._

 

_Bucky screamed then._

 

_When he ran out of breath and his voice cracked into horrified silence, he realized that his mother’s cries had moved. From out of the window, he saw her white nightgown bright under the stars, glowing like she was chipped straight off the moon. Around her, the monsters were darkness cloaked in more dark._

 

_He knew that if he didn't step back from the window, he'd see the shadows kill her; much later, his hollow heart would mourn the fact that he hadn't._

 

 _Outside in the yard, he almost tripped on a chunk of metal._ _That was the moment he touched his first gun, grabbing it up unthinking, hissing when the hot barrel burnt his trembling hand._

 

_The snarls were fading, stalking towards the front of the house, leaving the sound of the crashing waves in Bucky’s ears and the memory of his father's voice telling him that if he was ever in danger, to find a cleft in the rock, a place to hide._

 

_Bucky focused and the sound condensed to just his own thoughts. He muttered them aloud, a steady mantra._

 

“ _Run. Now, run.”_

 

***

 

The room pivoted in front of Bucky’s eyes.

 

It was so long ago and his memory so laughably far from photographic. Whatever he had to thank for it, the memory was blessedly cloudy and fractured. But fuck if it didn't split his heart apart.

 

“I'm sorry,” Steve told him softly, so sincere that Bucky’s heart might have re-broken right there. Steve looked like he’d bridge the distance between them if it weren't for the voice telling him it would only make things worse. “What happened then?”

 

“Well I didn't run,” Bucky muttered, not quite self deprecating, not quite proud.

 

He held Steve’s gaze despite the fact he was feeling the same crushing weight of guilt and grief in exactly the way he had two hundred years ago on that overwhelmed English cliff-top.

 

Steve could see how much it still hurt. Heard it in the breaks of Bucky’s voice, the way he squeezed the wooden frame beneath his fingers like it would break as well, and his body with it. But he'd told his story and Steve hadn't run off the edge off the earth.

 

“I lost them all,” he said, sitting stock still in the metal chair, blank gaze fixed dead ahead.

 

He must have sat down while he was telling his story. The steel of the restraints were cold under his right palm, but his other hand was warm. More tea had materialized in his mug while he’d been talking, and he was clenching it so tight it was possible he might have burnt away his fingertips if he weren’t holding the mug in his metal hand.

 

After a moment of thought in which Steve seemed to be calculating the words he was about to say, his thumb found the dip in Bucky’s chin and nudged it gently. “No. They were taken from you.”

 

Bucky’s eyes prickled. “Yeah.” He didn't know what had become of his father’s last moments. Whether he got to see the best part of the next day before he died. “Yeah,” he nodded, voice tight. “They took all of them.”

 

Bucky looked down and the silence stretched until Steve once again looked like he wanted to ask what happened next.

 

A part of Bucky didn't want Steve to fret about asking, but answering the unspoken question was complicated. He knew if he said _I_ _don't know_ that his voice would cut out for good, so he skipped what he didn’t know and found another truth.

 

“Alexander Pierce ran the lycans off and found me. I was still standing in that damn yard.” Bucky took a breath. “He made me a vampire. I don't know why. I'd been pointing a gun at his head for near ten minutes before he talked me down. I'm still surprised he didn't kill me. But he didn't. He turned me… gave me the strength to avenge my family.”

 

Backing away, Bucky’s eyes steeled over, a protective layer that he knew from experience was more effective than kevlar. “When I said killing lycans is what I do, I meant it.”

 

Steve’s eyes flickered across the steel. “You’re still planning on killing me?”

 

“Yes,” Bucky answered, because if he believed in nothing else, killing lycans was cemented in his soul and etched into his bones. In that moment, he wouldn't let himself think of anything else.

 

Steve had this look. Hurt and knowing and obstinate, and it spun Bucky back round to all the reasons he didn't want Steve dead.

 

“You could at least look at me when you say it,” Steve said.

 

“It’s not you,” Bucky raised his voice, a note closer to desperation. “It's the lycan in you.”

 

“That _is_ me.”

 

Sighing with irritation, knowing Steve was right, Bucky growled, “You make me tea and kiss me back and tell me your life story and you think it will change things.”

 

“Hasn’t it?”

 

Bucky flinched. “Is that why you did it?”

 

Frowning, Steve shut the thought down straight away. “No,” he said, his anger building under the ripping tension. “You know it's not.”

 

Steve’s answer was a relief and a temptation all at once, and Bucky felt like he was losing it. “You’ve been trying to get into my head for days.”

 

“I haven’t,” Steve argued back. “You make it sound like I’ve been manipulating you. And if you really believe that then fuck you, because if I’m in your head, it has nothing to do with me.”

 

He was, he was in Bucky’s head and Bucky was suffocating with it, but he ignored the implication, couldn’t bear the thought that Steve might have been talking about this thing between them. The current Bucky was trying to ignore, the way he wanted to lean into Steve and lose himself. If they were talking on different wavelengths, it was only because Bucky was clinging to the threadbare comfort of a familiar station, tuning out the undeniable accusation that Bucky had put Steve into his head himself.

 

Bucky pressed his metal fingers into his forehead as if there was a chance they could push out the jumbled mess. He didn't look at Steve when he said, “Stop talking.”

 

Steve obliged, but Bucky suspected it was only because he’d already made his point.

 

In the silence, Bucky picked at the label on the liquor bottle and beat himself up a little bit.

 

The version of the story he'd told Steve was only what he could stomach to remember. And maybe that was why he didn't have the photographic memory he ought to, not that he was different to all the other vampires or that something had happened to take it all away, but because Bucky was a coward whose fear blocked the memories from forming in the first place. He was an architect of his own misfortune, still looking for that cleft in the rock, a jagged crack to hide in.

 

If that was true, he reasoned, it only ran to his unreliable mind. In action, Bucky found comfort in the fact that he was true in his commitment to vengeance, to his calling as a vampire and his job as a death dealer.

 

“I’ve killed entire bloodlines,” he heard himself warn Steve when the silence and his own thoughts got too much.

 

The taunt was feeble and not the direct threat it should have been. But _‘I’ll kill you, don’t think I won’t,’_ got stuck in his throat along with all the other lies and half truths, little white ones and atomic red ones, that had become harder to say recently.

 

He stared down as he ripped away a satisfying strip from the front of the bottle and started in on the back. When he looked back up, Steve still hadn't taken the bait. In another situation he might have done, but right now he seemed focused on something else entirely.

 

“I believe you,” he said, taking a half-step closer, “but right now you're not gonna kill anyone but yourself. Clint said you need to feed.”

 

So he'd overheard then. Bucky redoubled his efforts with the label, fumbling to keep his hands busy.

 

Steve took another careful step towards him and softly commanded, “Let me help.”

 

The room span a slow, lazy spin as Bucky tightened his thighs to stop himself moving forward. “What?”

 

“You heard,” Steve said steadily. “You need to feed. I can help.”

 

“No…”

 

“Why?”

 

Bucky bit down on a whine. It was agony to turn down the offer, especially when he could hear Steve’s pulse kick up speed under milky smooth skin, but it was even more torturous to have to defend the decision.

 

“I can't bite you. Vampire and lycan venom attacks one another and then the host. A vampire bite now would kill you.”

 

“What do you care?” Steve quirked an eyebrow and set his jaw, a strange juxtaposition of anger and playfulness in an attempt to prove a point.

 

The words hurtled through the air like one of Bucky’s daggers. Point made.

 

“Or is it too soon for me to die?” Steve’s eyes didn't stray from Bucky’s, not even when the vampire bared his teeth. He didn’t back down and his eyes were dark, black blocking out the blue so that Bucky vibrated with the effort it took to keep himself from moving forwards.

 

He was so distracted, gauging his own movements, that he was genuinely caught off guard when after less than a second of silence, Steve opened a vein himself.

 

“Fucking hell, Steve!”

 

It took a moment to blink out the disbelief, then he was rushing forwards, covering the gash on Steve's forearm with his hands, eyes darting between Steve’s determined face, the red stream of blood and the knife.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Bucky growled angrily, pressing down to slow the blood flow, fingers sliding and slick with it. The scent flooded Bucky’s head and he was swaying, will-power fading.

 

It would be so easy just to roll with instinct. To haul Steve forward and take the edge off quick. His teeth were singing for blood as Steve moved in a step more. Close enough that it made sense to move that little bit closer, to cross that last bit of space that said, _You can’t come back from this._

 

Seeing Bucky waver, Steve took the decision to close the last few inches between them so that Bucky was tucked up against him. They’d have been chest to chest if it weren't for Steve bringing his bleeding arm up and lifting it that bit nearer Bucky’s lips.

 

Oh dear god, _fuck_.

 

Bucky’s hands came to Steve’s sides, wrapping around muscle, and he thought about how Steve was probably as strong as him, might even be stronger. How he could stop Bucky from taking too much blood if Bucky lost his mind. And about how good it would feel to surrender, stomach fluttering at the thought.

 

“Come on, Bucky,” came the low command, spoken against Bucky’s jaw. Bucky felt Steve’s lips kiss his neck, open mouthed and panting humid puffs of air on his icy skin.

 

It wasn’t hard to give in after that, to dip his head and mould his lips to Steve’s feverish skin, to let the hot rush flood him. He looked up in time to see Steve’s eyes suddenly shift out of focus and roll back.

 

At the first taste, the sweet relief hit Bucky like a gasp of life. Then the pleasure crashed in, a second stronger wave of feeling. A twisting, pounding lust that wound its way through his core and made him whimper against Steve’s skin and didn't abate.

 

Just like the kiss earlier, once Bucky had a taste, he was gone. There was no coming back, not with Steve’s heartbeat pounding against his tongue, or the taste of him in his mouth. It was like lightning spilling down his spine.

 

A moment later, Bucky was pulling Steve down to the floor in an ungainly, desperate heap of limbs that bumped and pressed against each other and couldn't keep still. He had just enough presence of mind to keep his fangs from pressing down, but that was where it ended. In reality, his sanity was a distant memory, just like that infamous restraint everyone in the coven revered. If they could see him now.

 

Time stretched out, thick and sluggish, hints of heaven in the peace that washed through his mind and pleasure that made his eyes blaze blue and had Steve’s lips spilling hot turned-on little noises.

 

Half crazed by blood, he followed Steve’s warmth. He couldn’t get their bodies any closer, but he damn well tried, and for every hot press he made further into Steve’s solidity, Steve pulled him in, hand curling around the arch of Bucky’s hips to urge him on. Bucky kept his own hands pinned to Steve’s arm, half in fear that Steve would take this away from him and half to keep his fingers from straying. Afraid that, given free reign, they’d follow the curve of Steve’s muscles over his hips and, _shit,_ down to his waistband and lower.

 

Everyone reacted differently to being fed from, but Bucky felt Steve’s abs clenching under damp cotton and moaned the second Steve’s hips hitched up against him, abortive little rocks that weren't quite enough.

 

Bucky could have sobbed for how turned on he was, but when he realized Steve hadn't taken a breath in a while, the fog cleared and he sobered instantly.

 

The pulse rushing against his lips was as strong as it ever was, but now lucid, he couldn’t recollect how long he’d been drinking. Long enough that Steve’s skin was already trying to repair, enhanced healing working to knit and seal the cut under Bucky’s lips. It would only take a nip of fangs and the mark would take, but Bucky drowned the spark of thought before it could catch and forced himself to pull away with a stab of regret and a defiant throb of want.

 

Blue eyes opened slowly, glazed and dark, and Bucky felt the urge to thank him, kiss him, give him everything. Wordlessly, Steve reached up and slowly ran a thumb along Bucky’s blood-red lower lip. It was all Bucky could do to pant against his hand and keep his teeth from biting, keep his eyes from drifting shut; his sharp teeth and bright blue eyes that hadn’t frightened Steve off the first time, and didn’t seem to be doing so now.

 

“Don’t let me take any more,” he whispered, giving in and squeezing his eyes shut, intent on keeping this shiny, sated feeling until he passed out from it.

 

Bucky got a headrush when Steve helped him to his feet. Steve - who should have felt high and giddy, who did but was still right there to steady Bucky when his legs threatened to fail, hands hot on his hips. Physically it wouldn't have been hard to extricate himself from Steve’s arms, Bucky knew how to find the weak point of a hold, it was just that his brain was making him slow, clumsy and wanting what he shouldn’t.

 

Somewhere very close, Steve was speaking soothingly, coaxing Bucky to the mattress, easing him towards it with a gentle tug on their clasped hands. Bucky flushed. He’d almost forgotten that their fingers were tangled. His eyes searched out Steve’s, yearning and discomforted all at once, but Steve held firm and Bucky relented, telling himself that the decision had been made for him, that it was easier not to struggle, that the touch didn’t fill his body and make him loose.

 

On the mattress, Steve hooked him in so that Bucky's front was pressed to his side, and when Bucky was sure Steve’s eyes were resting closed, he let himself admire the straight sweep of his nose, long eyelashes painting his cheeks gold. And he thought about the riptide at his feet, and the way Steve radiated heat like sunbaked earth and made Bucky feel alive again.

 

Steve was mid yawn when Bucky’s body mirrored it. Another of those reflexes, a habit that died hard. It was almost a comfort; the tear in Bucky’s immortality that reminded him who he once was.

 

“Okay?” Steve asked from under Bucky’s spent body, lazy breaths hypnotizing.

 

“Never better,” he answered, and wanted Steve to know it was the truth. Yes, his head had been in turmoil since they met, but running parallel was the freeing feeling that ironed out his cold, rumpled, fragile sense of self. The weight on his chest had never been lighter.

 

Body dissolving into both mattress and Steve, Bucky could almost be weightless, but there was still the gnawing concern that if the lycans attacked now, with Bucky drugged and Steve dreamy, they'd be vulnerable. More than vulnerable. Vulnerable was the chair leg Steve was intermittently squeezing in his hand as he came down.

 

Vulnerable didn't cover it, and yet, Bucky was already drifting when he felt Steve’s fingers come to rest on his back, brushing the line of his spine and massaging into the muscles.

 

Steve was speaking to him, but he couldn't make out the words. Eyes heavy and limbs sluggish, he felt the pull of sleep that had eluded him for years.

  
He’d passed out before he realized that the warm silk soothing across his forehead was actually Steve's fingertips stroking softly over his skin.


	8. VIII: ‘Dead Cat Bounce’

**VIII: ‘Dead Cat Bounce’**

 

 _“Sometimes forgetting was just as bad as remembering.”_ ― Sarah Dessen, Once and for All  
  
~

 

With fresh blood in his veins and a lead on Romanoff, Bucky had started the day thinking that barring acts of god — and Steve Rogers — he might just survive the day. One quick glance through the door of the safe house that evening, however, and he was no longer sure.

 

Clint had called to say that he'd roped Wanda, Riley and Peter into helping him and Steve research _corvinus,_ butinstead of the werewolf hunting, conspiracy uncovering, mystery solving HQ Bucky'd been promised, he found the apartment looking more like a lock-in at a cheap liquor bar.

 

Only Sam appeared to be stone cold sober, keeping watch from the doorway and offering Bucky an unexpectedly sympathetic look — or at the very least, the ghost of one — as Bucky took in the carpet of vodka bottles with a mixture of surprise, annoyance, and also relief, because seeing Steve all loose-limbed and slow laughs had him desperate for something stronger than his own will power.

 

Wanda spotted Bucky while he was still hovering at the edge of the room. Resting her chin on Clint’s shoulder, she tilted her head on a smile, trying to decide whether Bucky would be the person to point out that getting wasted was not conducive to finding a rogue lycan, or indeed, protecting a wanted one. God knew he needed to be that person, and maybe a few days ago he might have been, but right now the party had nothing to fear in Bucky.

 

When Steve’s gaze landed on him, Bucky was still watching. The sun had been on the rise when Bucky had left that morning but the threat of the day's UV rays wasn't the only reason he’d snuck out while Steve was still sleeping. He’d felt like shit for doing it, and it had been a relief when there was another lycan attack to neutralize. The drum and bass rhythm of hunt and kill had provided a blessed distraction. Now he'd have to face Steve head on.

 

And so... no, Bucky was not going to be the sober friend that organized the cash when the pizza arrived.  And there was no way in the nine circles of hell he was going to be the only one without an excuse for whatever he'd end up doing or saying when the only seat was tucked up tight against Steve on the edge of his, suddenly very appealing, make-shift bed. It was right there on the list of things Bucky had paid the price to learn: his brain still thought his body was mortal; Rumlow was a dick whatever the era; and above all, plausible deniability was king.

 

Bucky started to make his way into the room, biting back a smile at the way Riley swayed in the top-right corner of the little square that he and the others had made on the floor.

 

“I made an amazing batch of cookies once,” Clint was extolling fondly.

 

“Woah, now hang on,” Wanda broke in, turning her head so that their faces were close enough to make her eyes cross, “because amazing was not what they were. Cookies are meant to be gooey. _Yours_ were hard, like oatcakes.”

 

Clint’s eyes lit up. “I could eat some oatcakes right about now.”

 

Bucky pulled a face. “Right, well we'll just nip back to the 1800s and get you some.” Without slowing his stride, he hooked the nearest bottle off the counter and let it dangle from his fingertips.

 

“Hey, don’t be down on oatcakes like that. They’ve stood the test of time.”

 

“Which is more than can be said for us,” Bucky finished, stepping through the square of bodies, purposely unbalancing two bottles of rum and a tube of Pringles. The clamor of hisses and boos, while amusing to Bucky, was a bit of an overreaction — at least from Wanda and Clint, who both knew that Bucky would never put snacks and alcohol at any real risk.

 

They all made a drunken fuss over steadying the bottles and whipping more out of his path. Everyone but Steve, who was focused solely on Bucky.

 

Having come straight from the mission — subconsciously drawn to the safe house as if driven by some sort of homing instinct — Bucky was still wearing his combat suit. It was like armor of more than one kind because it was as familiar to Bucky as a second skin. Considering the way Steve’s eyes drifted over it and away with a blush, it might fit like one too.

 

“And to think we missed you,” Wanda sighed, hands flat over the lip of two bottles to keep them upright.

 

Peter laughed. Bucky might have even called it a giggle if he'd had more experience with the sound.

 

“We didn't miss you, by the way,” Steve was quick to point out.

 

Bucky was so busy narrowing his eyes at Steve's little smirk, he almost missed Peter’s considering hum.

 

“I thought you'd make a more dramatic entrance,” the boy thought out loud.

 

Bucky blinked down at him, wondering when Peter had become his enemy. Clint snorted into his glass of whiskey.

 

“Like you'd burst through the door in a cloak,” Peter continued, misjudging his hand gestures and almost dropping his drink, “with smoke billowing around you or something.”

 

Wanda cackled. “Covered in crows.”

 

Turning his narrowed eyes from Steve to Peter to Wanda, Bucky was tempted to tell them all to get fucked, but knew he probably ought to be a better sport than that. “Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not actually that cool,” he ended up deadpanning instead.

 

Clint shifted his attention from Peter’s reddening face to Bucky. “How'd it go tonight?” he grinned. “Did you need me?”

 

“Pretty textbook. And no, I needed people who don't question orders and don't need snack breaks every five minutes.”

 

“Ouch,” Riley laughed. It was such a small word, just a sound really, and he still managed to slur it. If Bucky knew him better, knew him at all, he might joke about it to bring him further into the group. As it was, what little Bucky knew of Riley suggested that he might not appreciate Bucky’s mockery, even of it was well intentioned.

 

Watching carefully out of the corner of his eye, he saw nothing but the usual friendly demeanor Riley always extended him. The only difference now was that Bucky knew that he may have endangered Riley in some way. He was still working on trying to remember what that was, but for the time being he resolved to stop looking for hatred in Riley's good nature and to keep his mouth shut on the joke.

 

“I have hypoglycemia,” Clint was busy excusing himself. “I have to eat. Fact.”

 

Wanda rolled her eyes. “You’re a vampire. One day you’ll break the habit of a lifetime and act like one.”

 

Clint slurred an, “Ouch,” of his own and offered Wanda a two fingered salute.

 

Steve’s eyes were lit with amusement as Bucky sat down beside him. His frame was relaxed as he scratched gently at Remy’s head. He looked so much lighter, such a lot younger now he appeared to have shrugged off that weight-of-the-world burden that always seemed to press him into the ground and make him serious.

 

“Sorry I'm late,” Bucky apologized, catching the fringe of warmth Steve created. He’d carefully measured the distance between them when he’d sat down so that they were close but not touching. Now he thought _fuck it_ and leaned a bit closer.

 

“You get a better offer?” Steve asked, nudging Bucky with his whole body.

 

Bucky could feel the moment Steve stalled, eyes tripping to the scuffs at Bucky’s knees. The way his mouth dropped in honest surprise when he realized the question had sounded like innuendo would have been hilarious if it weren’t so wonderfully genuine.

 

“Maybe I did,” Bucky breathed out, an undercurrent of provocation in his voice. “You might need to qualify that question a bit better.”

 

He smirked like satan’s favorite sin when he saw something possessive cross Steve’s face. The expression disappeared under a blush in the blink of an eye, but Bucky would remember it hours later and it would still make his stomach flip.

 

“I didn’t mean like that,” Steve groaned, his embarrassment exaggerated by alcohol which only served to make Bucky grin wider, eyes crinkling at the corners.

 

“I was jumping from a high rise,” Bucky explained, taking pity. He indicated to his knees and shrugged. “It was a long way down.”

 

Steve’s eyes watched Bucky’s lips part around the neck of a rum bottle and didn’t look away. “Be careful.”

 

Bucky swallowed slowly. In the interests of self preservation, he plastered on a carefree smile and echoed Steve’s words from the first day. “I ain’t dead yet.”

 

Steve’s face turned unimpressed.

 

“I had to take them by surprise. And you'd trademarked the body slam, so—”

 

“Yes, alright Bucky,” Steve cut him off quickly, cheeks pinking up again at the memory of the subway and Bucky’s subsequent teasing. “How much longer are you going to beat me over the head with that?”

 

“Oh don’t worry, it’s not like we’re immortal or anything,” Bucky sniggered. “Anyway, I'm too old to worry about death lurking over my shoulder.”

 

“Never too old to die young,” Steve said seriously, then added, “Look after yourself,” in a voice that was low and final.

 

Bucky gave a lazy salute with his dagger, teamed it with a cheeky grin. The dark humor fell flat when the only look he got in return was strangely haunted. Too late to think how the gesture might have been more palatable without the six inch hunting knife.

 

Bucky chucked the blade behind him.

 

“Talking about dying young…” he swerved when Steve’s concerned expression started to make him reevaluate his own fatalistic attitude, “How much has Peter drunk?”

 

The words, whispered near Steve’s ear, made the blond shiver as he turned to where Peter was sat cross legged amidst a macabre crop-circle of open bottles. “He’s fifty seven years old,” Steve pointed out. “Let him drink a Bud Light”

 

Their eyes met and when Steve grinned, Bucky held his composure for a full two seconds before giving in. He smiled so hard he might have closed his eyes for a moment. “ _That_ is not Bud Light though is it?” he scoffed. “Why do I get the feeling that you poured his first shot of hard liquor yourself.”

 

“I plead the fifth.”

 

“You can plead whatever the hell you like,” Bucky retorted with a short chuckle, “but you ain't the saint everyone thinks you are.”

 

Steve laughed, lower and darker, and Bucky must have been crazy, or drunk, because he deliberately stretched a little and watched the low light shine off his leather pants just to make Steve fidget next to him, nails digging into the sheet.

 

Bucky’s eyes flicked up just in time to catch Steve in what seemed to be open admiration of his thighs. It was a close run thing, but Bucky stopped short of swinging a leg over to bracket Steve's hips, grind in his lap and let Steve’s teeth decorate his neck purple and blue. Shit, he'd almost forgotten how horny he got drinking rum.

 

The tension short-circuited when Sam called out across the room to Steve. Something about Starbucks. Steve answered with a little salute and a green-eyed monster loomed on the edges of Bucky’s vision. It didn't look like flirting, but Bucky was never one to underestimate an enemy.

 

He turned away before his eyes flashed blue and betrayed him. It wasn't hard to distract himself when his eyes fell on the rest of the room. How Bucky had already managed to drag this many people into his fight, he didn't know, but the lycan attacks were increasing in frequency, becoming more aggressive every day. If it carried on this way, they'd need more troops. Reinforcements from the other covens.

 

Bucky knew it wasn't fair to put anyone in more unnecessary danger, but then Steve laughed at something Sam had said and Bucky thought that despite his reservations about dragging innocent people onto the frontline, he could make an exception for Sam.

 

Sam, he thought, could take point.

 

“Thought you’d be annoyed about everyone being here,” Steve remarked when he turned back to Bucky.

 

Bucky shrugged, feeling unaccountably smug to have won Steve's attention back. “The more people in this room, the more people we can blame when everything goes to shit later.”

 

Steve snorted. “I meant here and drunk instead of here and doing something useful.”

 

“Please tell me you've done something useful as well?” Bucky found himself almost pleading. “Preferably during the time you were sober.”

 

Steve opened his mouth to reply, but Riley’s stage whisper cut him off.

 

“I don't think I've ever seen him talk this much.”

 

Unceremoniously torn out of his Steve-centric focus, Bucky turned around sharply. Somehow immune to the glare, Peter agreed in the same balcony reaching whisper, eyes not straying from Bucky. Great, they were talking about him.

 

“Don't take it personally,” Clint told Riley. “I’ve known him ninety percent of a very long life and he barely talks to me.”

 

There was a hand shaped heat at the dip of Bucky’s spine and his irritation fizzled down to a barely there simmer by the time he looked to Clint and said, “Throw me under the bus why don't you.”

 

“And to think, you used to be so charming.”

 

Clint was only fucking around, Bucky knew that, but he still had a strange feeling like an air bubble racing upwards through a ton of water; a memory surfacing. _‘_ Charming’. Yes, he might have been that once. Before he split apart at the seams and became a different Bucky altogether.

 

Clint tipped his head to Bucky’s left. “We have Steve for charm now though.”

 

“Talking of, shame Mrs Ruffle couldn’t make it tonight,” Riley said, a playful glint in his eye when he caught Bucky’s gaze. And right, well, Bucky supposed Riley was owed a few jabs at him considering.

 

Riley’s grin was a little infectious and Bucky had to work hard to keep the smile at bay. It still slipped into his voice when he airily said, “I’d conveniently forgotten about her.”

 

Clint laughed. “He pretends not to remember things all the time,” he confided to Steve like the worst kind of betrayer, and Riley’s eyes went a bit distant. “He once said I was the better shot and now denies it.”

 

“I literally never said that.”

 

“He also said he could drink me under the table,” Wanda contributed.

 

“Thought he first rule of lying was to make it believable?” Steve teased Bucky.

 

Bucky gave him a bland look in return. “Actually, it's not the first rule. But that in itself was a believable lie, and you fell for it, so my point still stands.”

 

Steve rolled his eyes.

 

Taking another swig, Bucky leant back on his elbows and found patterns in the smoke above his head. Steve’s heartbeat pounded in his ears like music. Something with a deep, dirty beat.

 

The ceiling was dark and bland enough that he could easily superimpose a pitch-back nightclub sliced with strobes, bass line thick as molasses and thundering through the sway and arch of bodies rocking against each other. Steve’s solid weight at his back. Night would dance into dawn and it wouldn’t matter when he stepped out into the sunrise and its rays touched his skin.

 

“The best lies are the ones you could almost believe yourself,” he noted absently, caught up and smiling softly at the dark. “The ones you could fool yourself into thinking were true.”

 

“Like when you said you were going to kill me?” Steve suggested nonchalantly.

 

Bucky’s smile died on his lips, eyes flying to Steve’s face as his walls tumbled — as if his walls had ever been anything but transparent to Steve anyway — because there it was again, that thing they alluded to in only the vaguest of terms, tip toeing around the edges of it.

 

They were so close, just inches and tension between them. An anticipation that Steve might go on to tell Bucky exactly why he was a lying coward — it was exactly what Bucky was thinking and Steve had never failed to see through him before.

 

Torn between desperately hoping he would and begging that he wouldn't, Bucky rushed to cut him off before the words were free. “You’re calling that a lie?”

 

The light tone didn't wash with Steve. He just regarded Bucky intently and said, “Yes I am.” His face carried none of the challenge or smirk that it might have done though, and Bucky’s nerves settled a little, the screaming blue of his vampire eyes slowly fading.

 

The room was so quiet, Bucky’s soft inhale seemed too loud. He pressed his lips together, which was pointless because he had no response to cut off. He was down and out.

 

He'd just have to be patient and wait for Clint to get them back on solid ground. But the man in question was busy watching Bucky as he not-quite-watched Steve out of the corner of his eye, before turning to warily take in the stubborn line of Steve’s jaw. Bucky knew Clint’s every expression, knew that this one meant he was completely done. It genuinely looked like he was caught between two equally inhospitable hell dimensions with not the faintest idea of how to recover the status quo without at least one of them freezing over.

 

“To be fair,” he told Bucky eventually after a brief, silent conversation with Wanda, “Only a sixth of the people in this room ever bought that lie. Not one of your best, man.”

 

Bucky tipped his head back again, shut his eyes and tried to avoid the insinuation that he himself was the only one that ever thought he could stomach to kill Steve, because if that was the case, then Clint was wrong and literally _nobody_ had believed the lie.

 

“We translated that section on Corvinus,” Clint said next, swiftly changing the subject. It was a weird looking peace offering, but Bucky would take it. He was still lying down so he missed the way Wanda’s big eyes and aggressive head tilt had been the instigator.

 

On Bucky’s way to sitting up, Steve caught his eye and smiled. A shy, slightly apologetic thing that Bucky returned like a mirror. It was so much easier than he thought it would be. Still, it only seemed fair to steal Remy out of Steve’s arms and take him for himself. Steve pursed his lips slightly on another one of those little smiles that could give Bucky’s dead heart palpitations.

 

“There wasn't much to go on really,” Wanda spoke up. “Just a page, but it did say that descendents of Corvinus were immune to certain strains of infection and illness. All we can think is that Romanoff is looking for people in the same bloodline to bolster her army. Maybe against a viral threat.”

 

“A virus that attacks lycans?” Peter asked skeptically. Give him his due, the idea did sound unlikely. But viral infections had been known to evolve and attack immortals before.

 

“Maybe,” Wanda said. “In which case, it's possible that she thinks Steve is a descendent and that his blood has the key to unlocking both immunity and cure.”

 

Steve scoffed, his face morphing into an expression that Bucky took to mean, _Yeah I know. Ironic, huh?_

 

“I think they picked the wrong subject then,” he said wryly for everyone else’s benefit.

 

Bucky didn’t want to say that it wouldn’t be the first time. Stane had told them that none of Romanoff’s other experiments had been a success and the words re-tunneled themselves into Bucky’s ears, buzzing like angry wasps. Clint looked at Bucky meaningfully, obviously reliving the same memory, but he remained silent.

 

“There’s more,” Riley said. “He’s been having the hallucinations again. We had to restrain him today.”

 

Steve’s indignant face amused Bucky no end, but the need to find out more overrode the temptation to wind him up. “More of the same? Or something new?”

 

“Both. But they loved each other,” Steve answered without preamble. “Romanoff and the vampire who was on trial, Sharon. I think it’s what started the war.”

 

Bucky shook his head and tried to shrug off the ridiculous notion with it. Vampires and lycans? It didn’t happen. It wasn’t possible.

 

Steve might have seen the gesture as a warning not to continue. If he did, he disregarded it. “They loved each other,” he said, firmer now.

 

“A vampire and a lycan,” Peter mused. “Who knew.”

 

“No,” Bucky retaliated with more bite than he would have used if he'd been given time to think. “That’s obviously not it.” He turned back to Steve. “You're doing a Lost Boys.”

 

“Getting high on too much hairspray?” Riley asked, whiskey-glazed eyes shining with confusion.

 

“Gay subtext,” Bucky said, pointing an accusatory finger at Steve.

 

Steve’s eyes went intent. And he waited a beat, eyes locked with Bucky. “You think I'm projecting?” he asked pointedly.

 

Bucky froze. “Thin. Ice,” was all he said and wondered if Steve would remember the dangerously fragile ground they trod on, the way they'd joked about it when Steve first entered the apartment.

 

“Are we talking platonic love or something more?” Clint asked.

 

“More.”

 

Bucky swallowed. “That's not…” _Possible_ didn't sit quite right for some reason, so Bucky went with, “allowed.” He wasn’t even sure he believed what he was saying anymore.

 

“Do I need to make a _true love conquers all_ speech?” Wanda threatened. “I know a wonderful Robin Hood-inspired Bryan Adams track that would do the job nicely.”

 

“No need,” Bucky shot down quickly, not sure whether it was Bryan Adams or the true love conquers all sentiment that put him off.

 

The whole thing was a cliche, but it also happened to be a very comfortable one when the truth was impossible.

 

“What do you have against Bryan Adams?” Wanda challenged.

 

“Could it be shame?” suggested Clint, poking Wanda in the ribs.

 

“Seeing as I'm the only one seeing Romanoff’s memories,” Steve led them back on track, “we’re going to say that I’m right and that she and Sharon were in love.”

 

“‘Were’? Past tense?” Bucky asked quickly.

 

“Yeah, Sharon was...” Steve’s face flickered a moment before he looked to Bucky and reluctantly said, “She was forced into the sunlight, and well… she's dead."

 

Clint pulled a face and Bucky would have blanched if his skin weren't as pale as his fatal sunlight allergy dictated.

 

“Sharon,” Clint said thoughtfully. “That name sounds familiar.”

 

“Well, we’ve been saying it for five minutes,” Wanda returned, poking Clint back twice as hard.

 

Clint sighed. “So, they couldn’t stand to be parted. They took the risk and Sharon ended up dead for the trouble?”

 

Bucky looked at Steve pointedly. There was a spiteful part of him that figured that if he had to know exactly where this delicious shit storm was headed, then Steve should know he was on the same one-way street. The perfect example of why Bucky and Steve were a very bad idea had just dropped off Clint’s lips like a lead weight.

 

Bucky wondered whether Steve was aware of exactly how difficult he made Bucky’s life by simply existing in it.

 

But Steve wasn't paying attention. “‘I’d rather live in his world than live without him in mine,’” he intoned, oddly random considering it was Steve.

 

“Right, so what are we going to do?” Peter asked.

 

“Sit tight and wait for Hallmark to sue Steve?” Bucky offered dryly, then checked his attitude when he felt Steve tug his buckle.

 

He settled back, let the breath he was holding out and felt the stress seep from his muscles. It felt good to comply. For once. For Steve.

 

“It’s a line from a song,” Steve explained with a self conscious shrug. “It seemed appropriate. And I've had a couple more drinks than I should — give me a break.”

 

When Wanda smiled over Clint’s shoulder and asked, “What song?” Steve returned the smile and drew a tiny circle on Bucky’s back with his thumb, leaving little sparks of sensation in its wake.

 

“‘Midnight Train to Georgia.’ My ma would play it back to back. She loved Motown.” He sighed wistfully. “I can't imagine a world without that song.”

 

Something hummed contentedly in Bucky’s chest. He loved it when Steve talked like that, hints of old soul and treacle-sweet nostalgia. He tried to remember his own mother’s favorite song, but came up empty handed and had to push the thought away before the noteless music sheet turned into a caustic lullaby.

 

“Doesn't your father like Frankie Valli?” Peter asked Bucky.

 

“Pierce isn't my father,” he clarified automatically. The mistake had been made before and every time it happened Bucky was torn between feeling proud because Pierce was the vampire he looked up to most of all, and hollow because it just reminded him of a wonderful man long dead.

 

Peter would never have met his father, let alone known that his favorite genre of music was Motown — which it wasn’t, Bucky thought painfully, because his father had been dead for it.

 

“No, not Pierce,” Peter persisted. “I mean, your real dad.”

 

Bucky frowned. Peter was confused, and he shouldn’t be angry with him for it. It was just that it felt like something was gnawing at the edges of his ribs and it hurt.

 

Peter clearly took Bucky’s frown as a request for clarification, because he was starting again before Bucky could stop him. “Mr Stark said something about it when he came over from England. Said your dad listens to those songs all the time, and that you can hear it on the other side of the coven house.”

 

Bucky’s eyes darted to Clint and Wanda, both of whom were looking uncomfortable, but Bucky’s gut tightened when he saw no trace of shock.

 

“Yeah, well Tony says a lot of things,” Riley chipped in. “But I’d heard that too. Always wondered if it was true.”

 

Peter and Riley looked to Bucky for an answer that he couldn’t give them. There was no explanation for two people being so terribly mistaken, or for the fact that neither Clint nor Wanda were helping to correct them.

 

“I don’t…” he trailed off when his voice lodged in his throat.

 

Bucky had spent the best part of his existence somewhere between ‘blissful ignorance’ and ‘knowledge is power.’ Now he had that punch to the gut feeling like he was missing something. The feeling you get when you know you’ve forgotten something but don't know what, and it’s somehow more frightening that knowing could ever be.

 

“Well, who doesn’t like Frankie Valli?” Steve interjected, a diversion because he could tell Bucky was uncomfortable, and a rescue if Bucky wanted to take it, but he was sick to the stomach of this horrifying misunderstanding.

 

“Well not my father because he died in 1811,” he said, voice wavering even though he was concentrating on nothing else but keeping it steady. He took a breath and felt Steve’s finger hook into his buckle, letting Bucky leach some of his strength.

 

The words zapped all playfulness from the air. There was a confused silence that put rocks in Bucky’s stomach. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. The sheer wrongness of it was a _drip drip_ in his veins that might have sounded like a ticking clock.

 

In his lap, Remy mewled and Bucky unclenched his fingers from where they were twisted in fur.

 

Clint scrutinized him a moment then smiled hesitantly through his frown to say, “And then he was reborn into a Four Seasons fan. It’s the one upside of being immortal — decades of music appreciation.”

 

Bucky glared, hard and cold because he couldn’t understand why Clint was doing this. “Only my father isn’t immortal,” he grit out. “He's not in London. He's never spoken to Tony Stark and he's never heard of Frankie Valli. Because he's dead. Just dead.” He stood up quickly, dislodging Remy in the process, and turned his back. He didn't want to look too hard at the shocked faces staring back at him.

 

There was a scuffle of more than one person rushing to their feet behind him.

 

“Bucky, what are you talking about?” Clint asked what everyone was thinking. “He lives in the London house. He has for years. Stop screwing around.”

 

“You stop!" Bucky snapped, twisting round. "You’ve never once brought my father up, Clint. Not once! Why? Because he’s dead. And this isn't funny.”

 

“I’m not laughing, Bucky,” Clint replied fast, and as hard as Bucky tried to find the lie, he couldn't. “I never brought him up because you hate speaking about your family, and I didn’t want it to drag you down. I wasn’t going to start asking how he was enjoying London or whether he was grateful of his promotion, any more than I was gonna ask about his favorite musicians.” He grimaced towards Peter. “No offence, kid.”

 

“I’m sor—”

 

“Not your fault,” Steve told Peter quickly, and Bucky was grateful because he was in no position to say it himself.

 

He felt like all the blood had drained out of his body, like he was just waiting for the room to swallow him whole.

 

“You really didn't know?” Wanda asked him, voice so quiet.

 

“I’m not lying to you, Bucky,” Clint vowed a beat later.

 

“I saw him die,” Bucky insisted, loudly like it would make the words real. Behind him, Remy darted across the floor in fright, nails scratching and skidding on the wood. “I saw him die,” he found himself repeating, weaker now.

 

_Did you?_

 

Hands fisting, fingernails reddening his palms with half-moons, Bucky tried to sort through the blur of memory. “I—I know there are things I can’t remember right,” he conceded. It was the first time he’d given voice to the gaping holes in his memory that shouldn’t be there. “But, this… I saw him die.”

 

_No, you didn’t._

 

Denial bubbled so quick to his lips, but he knew there was no point in trying to pretend that the memory was anything but fractured. Everything from the point at which he'd drifted to sleep that night, to his mother’s final scream. Everything that had turned his rhythm from coastal tides and stars at night, to a soldier’s life and a sunless prison.

 

He watched Wanda lead Peter and Riley out the door as if he were a helpless spectator, heard Sam seek confirmation from Riley that Bucky seriously had no idea, which sparked another wave of anger. A sudden, selfish anger.

 

“You kept this from me?” Bucky demanded of Clint, voice brittle and thick, once the door had clicked shut.

 

“No! I thought…” Clint trailed off, sending a beseeching look to Steve. “There was no reason to think you didn't know. But he's alive. He heads up the London coven. Shit, I can't believe you didn't know. I swear it’s true. Ask Pierce.”

 

“Pierce?” Bucky’s breath was coming heavy now, his head hammering cruelly. “Pierce knows he's alive?”

 

Clint looked at Bucky like they were on a precipice, like Bucky was about to take a jump that wouldn't scrape his knees but would break them. A jump he wouldn't recover from. Whatever the answer, Bucky could see by Clint’s face that he knew it would send Bucky down.

 

“Yeah,” Clint said reluctantly. “He knows.”

 

_'You can lower the gun now… I won't hurt you… The wolves are dead, slaughtered, it's what they deserved for taking your family from you, making them hurt... they tortured your father before they killed him, but they can't hurt you if you're with us… That's it, hand me the gun... I can give you enough life to avenge them all.'_

 

And Pierce had always spoken about his father in the past tense ever since. But he'd watched out for Bucky. Would never betray him. It didn't make sense.

 

“I need to speak to him,” Bucky decided eventually, trying to think around the fact that Pierce was sleeping in a crypt right now and wasn't due to be woken for another three hundred years.

 

Steve’s voice cut through his thoughts, speaking for the first time in long minutes. “Can you trust him?” His voice was strange, maybe even edged, like he suspected the answer was, or should be, no.

 

“Of course I can,” Bucky cut back angrily. “He saved my life. Made me better and ignored all my faults. He taught me to be the best I could be.”

 

Steve’s jaw twitched like maybe he was seeing red. “How do you figure that?” he countered. “He made you a weapon.”

 

“Yes, he did,” Bucky agreed, because quite honestly he could have told Steve that. But there was a grinding, rusted twist to the way Steve said it that suggested he didn't see it as a good thing.

 

“Steve might have a point,” Clint suggested, then threw his hands up when Bucky’s eyes snapped to his. “We should be careful, is all I’m saying.”

 

Steve’s eyes bored into Bucky. “I think—”

 

“Stop,” Bucky appealed, hands fisting by his sides, wishing they were fisting in his hair, or Steve’s shirt. Wishing he was an hour ago and ignorant again and that his head wasn’t pounding with new pain layered on top of old pain that he’d suppressed for too long.

 

Steve’s mouth opened and closed quickly, silenced by the tight desperation in Bucky’s voice. They looked at each other mutely, speaking only in loud exhalations, would-be words wasted. But there was peace too, when it all narrowed down to him and Steve.

 

It wouldn’t last. Even now Bucky felt like he was waiting for the backdraft, knowing that while the fire had consumed all the oxygen in the room, there was always more, waiting in the hallway, on the streets of Budapest, and every square meter of the mansion. And when the fire found it, it would explode.

 

He pretended not to hear Steve call his name as he walked out the room. The sound was empathetic, entreating, but Bucky couldn't turn around and ask Steve to fix him — he didn't stop to think for one moment that Steve might not think he needed it.

 

He was too busy elsewhere.

 

Too busy planning an awakening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dead cat bounce:** derived from the idea that 'even a dead cat will bounce if it falls from a great height,' the phrase is popularly applied to any case where a subject experiences a brief resurgence during a severe decline.


	9. IX: Daybreak

**IX: Daybreak**

 

_‘If you were the ocean and I was the sun,_

_If the day made me heavy and gravity won._

_If I was the red, and you were the blue,_

_I could just fade into you.’_

_-_ Claire Bowen, Fade into You

 

~

 

“Gurgh,” Clint groaned, batting Bucky’s hands away only to have them continue to shove him awake less than a second later. “Honestly Bucky, fuck off. Sun's not even down yet.”

 

“Hungover?”

 

“From rum?” Clint scoffed, still squeezing his eyes shut. “Pfff.”

 

Bucky sucked at his teeth as he waited for his friend to blink awake, an unwilling witness as Clint’s gray-blue eyes transitioned from half-sleep to remembrance like cogs slipping into time.

 

He could almost see the memories flash over Clint’s eyes — alcohol and laughter, and Bucky’s face when he found out that Pierce had lied and that the father he thought had been dead for two hundred years had been alive and well for every single one of them.

 

Clint’s irritation at being woken simmered down pretty quickly after that, but in all honesty, Bucky didn't like the pity any more than he liked the anger.

 

“Oh shit,” Clint said roughly, hauling himself into a sitting position. “How are you doing?”

 

“Please don't," Bucky muttered, the plea coming out a little hollow, a little strangled. Apparently pushing for two-word sentences was one word too many.

 

Bucky let his eyes wander the room. It was more comfortable than holding Clint’s sorry gaze. The walls were matt and ochre, darker in the corners where the lamp-light failed to reach, casting murky shadows across ceiling.

 

He blinked upwards. It was the first time he'd noticed that Clint’s ceiling had been delicately worked so that hundreds of shooting targets had been swirled into the patterned plaster. He gazed at them, tabulating the scores of thousands of tiny dart holes and waited for the anxiety to stop fisting his gut.

 

He hadn’t been looking forward to this: the first scene with Clint after the revelation of his father’s survival, the ensuing argument and the resulting guilt and anger and pity. Clint had never walked on eggshells around Bucky before, and Bucky didn’t want him to start now.  

 

“Stop being weird,” he said finally, firm enough to make Clint squint at him in half-sleep.

 

There was a beat of silence. Bucky could feel the exact moment Clint realized the situation required a hefty dose of normality. “Sucks about your dad,” he modified.

 

It was perfectly _wonderfully_ normal, and Bucky’s eyes smiled at him.

 

Clint’s eyes on the other hand were too busy buried in the fabric of a throw cushion to smile back. “Did you find anything?” He paused to launch the cushion off the bed and replace it with the heels of his hands. “Seriously, what was in that rum?”

 

“85% alcohol,” Bucky replied, tempted to grin. “And yeah, I did some digging. Didn't have to dig very far — the fact that he's alive and well isn't exactly a secret. Unless you’re me, that is. He lives in the coven house in Kingston-Upon-Thames. Drives a Bugatti. Has a girlfriend.” Bucky coughed when his throat itched. “Likes Frankie Valli.”

 

It seemed weird to say _he_ but Bucky knew that if he used the word _father_ — if he broke the third party narrative he’d been clinging to for more than a second — he might lose his mind completely.

 

“Will you see him?”

 

Bucky had been expecting this question. Never in his life had he met someone that didn't seem naturally inclined to encourage other people’s family reunions. Must be something to do with starts and ends, circling back, broken figure eights that the mind craved to mend or else risk a haunted, unfulfilled soul. Something about blood is thicker than water.

 

It was easy when it wasn't your own family, your own mess to work out, and Bucky couldn't keep the sour taste from his mouth when he realized he'd been avenging a family member too many.

 

It shouldn't matter, but the thing was, his father had had lifetimes to get in touch, but had never come looking for Bucky. He’d never once boarded that plane across the English Channel to find his son. Even when a London representative was required on the continent, he'd sent Stark. Bucky had a stack of telegrams from Fury, a man he barely knew and one he'd personally imprisoned in an abandoned castle, but not a word from his own father. Not a single one.

 

“We have bigger problems,” he sighed, shutting out the thoughts that would only steep him in bitterness.

 

Bored of trying to find a target on the ceiling with anything less than a perfect 180 score, he started picking at the broken seams on Clint’s comforter instead.

 

“This thing with Steve...” he started quietly, snapping another stitch. “I might have gotten too close.”

 

Clint snorted. “Surely not.”

 

Twirling the loose thread around his finger, Bucky kept his eyes low. “I kissed him. And I think Sam might know.”

 

“I'm sure he's scandalized.”

 

Bucky’s lips quirked up at the sides. “You're not pissed?”

 

“I'm relieved to be honest. Thought you'd still be trying to convince yourself you hate him right to the bitter end.”

 

Bucky groaned. “I should have had this conversation with Wanda.”

 

“Yes,” Clint affirmed, “you absolutely should have.”

 

And well, that cut a bit, because Bucky hadn't been talking to Wanda as much as he should have lately. It was just that he sometimes worried she’d see all the unspoken things in his head that made his skin prickle. “Is _she_ pissed?”

 

“She worries about you.”

 

Bucky’s mouth flickered. “And you don't?”

 

“The way I see it, you're miserable enough as it is,” Clint didn't bother pausing to acknowledge Bucky’s sarcastic grunt of thanks, “so god fucking knows how miserable you'd be with a broken heart as well.” He tugged the comforter away when Bucky’s fingers worsened the rip they'd made. “Thing is, I can't see Steve being the one to break it. I mean… if you can get over the whole lycan versus vampire thing, I guess.”

 

_Oh yeah... that._

 

Bucky found himself pressing his lips together and humming softly. Lycan, vampire. Romanoff, Sharon. Just names and time-worn rules, and there was nothing like the burn of new crisis to cool the old one. In light of his father’s deceit, Bucky was left thinking that maybe it didn't mean all that much anymore. The age-old rivalry seemed so distant when there were issues closer to home.

 

“You’re not freaking out about it,” Clint observed. “Let me repeat the part where I said _lycan_ a few times and maybe we'll get there.” He dragged himself up so his back was to the headboard, groaning like he weighed five times as much and had the bones of a man whose body had aged like it should have done. “Have you told him?”

 

“Told him what?” Bucky asked absently, hands flexing with the need to pull at the bed sheet.

 

Clint narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. “That you've fallen for him. Please say you’ve told him.”

 

“Not technically.”

 

“Or in any way?” Clint asked doubtfully, raising an eyebrow.

 

Making a frustrated sound that rumbled somewhere in his chest, Bucky reached for Clint’s dart and fell back onto the bed. “It should be pretty obvious. I'm a fucking idiot around him.”

 

He cursed and started playing with the nylon flight at the end of the dart’s stem. If he fucked it up enough it would probably destabilize the dart next time Clint went to use it. Clint’s revenge would be swift and creative, but Bucky wasn't even sure he'd survive the next full moon anyway.

 

“I don't know how else to tell him.”

 

“Here's a thought, why don't you just say it like any normal fucking person?” was Clint’s ungracious advice. “And quit ruining my stuff.”

 

“Wow. Remember when you said you wanted to try your hand at life coaching? Think how many lives I saved by advising you not to.”

 

“What I actually said was that life coaching was the _last_ thing I'd want to do. Do you ever listen to me?”

 

Despite the smirk sneaking onto his face, Bucky suddenly felt unaccountably tired. Only it wasn't unaccountable, it was wholly accountable on the grounds he'd slept probably a total of a few hours in the last two centuries, and while he technically didn't need sleep, hours upon hours of wakefulness would exhaust anyone.

 

Clint’s bed looked warm. A bit narrow maybe, but Clint could easily be shoved aside to make room for Bucky.

 

Through the fuzzy, sleepy veil, Bucky heard Clint’s rough timbre.

 

“You need to call Steve. He’ll want to know if you’re alright.”

 

“That’s exactly why I turned my phone off.”

 

Clint sighed. “He won’t care that you’re not. It doesn't matter to him that you're not okay. You do know that right?”

 

Bucky knew. He knew he could fall apart with Steve. That was why they called it falling. Easy as anything if you knew you had the right parachute to catch you.

 

“Right now, all I know is that I need to wake Pierce from hibernation.”

 

“You can't wake him up smelling like that,” Clint said quickly, voice embedded with a fervency that Bucky hadn't heard in it before. It was so uncharacteristic that Bucky found himself frozen to the spot.

 

“Smelling like what?”

 

Clint took a tiny breath. “Like there's more of Steve’s blood in your veins than your own.”

 

“Shit,” Bucky cursed, a crash of realization socking him right in the face.

 

“If _I_ can still smell it, then Pierce will definitely be able to.”

 

Fuck, Clint was right. There was a chance Pierce’s senses would be weakened right after awakening, but he'd still know. There was nothing so potent to a vampire as human blood.

 

But they were running out of time. Romanoff was upping the ante, preparing for full out war. Rumlow was most likely colluding with her. And Steve, well… he wouldn't go down without a fight, but both sides were after him, and it was only a matter of time before they caught up to him.

 

Pierce was the only one who could sort through the chaos. So Bucky would have to take the risk, plead a moment of weakness for fresh blood, say he'd snatched some random human off the street, and hope that it was believable.

 

“If this goes sideways on us, that could be it,” Clint said seriously.

 

“I’m not sure the best case scenario looks much better to be honest.”

 

“Well,” Clint dragged himself off the bed and offered Bucky a hand, “he’s not going to thank you for waking him up, that’s for sure.”

 

~

 

Clint was right. And to that end, it should have been a relief that Pierce’s casket was already open when they arrived.

 

It wasn’t.

 

They stood in the antechamber, looking through the glass at the empty tomb, forced to listen to the harsh exhale of toxic laughter off Rumlow’s lips. Bucky ground his teeth and dug his heels into the stone to keep from launching himself at Rumlow’s head.

 

So Rumlow had beaten him to Pierce. God knew what he'd been saying, what vicious lies and incriminating truths he'd been whispering into Pierce's ear. If Bucky were less secure in his status, he'd be worried. But he was Pierce’s elite, Pierce’s legacy, and he'd never been doubted before.

 

“Who woke him?” Bucky demanded, not bothering to turn around.

 

“You did,” Rumlow said, arms folded, grin real and relishing. “That's what he thinks anyway. It's not really a lie is it? You were on the way here to do it after all.”

 

“Who woke him?” Bucky repeated fiercely, “Because it sure as hell wasn't you. You don't have the guts.”

 

Behind him, Rumlow’s face pinched in hot fury. “He knows about your human, kid. You’re the one that’s gonna need guts.”

 

Chomping at the bit, Rumlow waited for Bucky to snap, but silence had always been Bucky’s greatest weapon when Rumlow was opposite him on the battlefield, and sure enough, the vampire was starting to bristle already. Bucky vaguely wondered if they may even beat that seven second record.

 

A blank stare and a sneer later, Rumlow caved under the swell of his anger. “Where is he?” he barked. “I know you've got him stowed away somewhere. Tell me where the human is right now or I swear to god Barnes, I will keep you under house arrest and starve you.”

 

It was bullshit and they both knew it. Bucky could break out anytime he wanted. And now that Pierce was awake...

 

“But I don't have to answer to you anymore do I?” Bucky’s dark smile widened. “I guess I should be thanking you for that.”

 

For a second it seemed as though Rumlow might back off, lips pursing and anger held at bay by the force of Bucky’s look, then a dark shadow appeared at the doorway and wrenched his attention away.

 

It was Zanab, a death dealer. One of Bucky’s own. She was fierce and had a wicked sense of humor, and Bucky had a lot of time for her.

 

Stepping into the scene, Zanab took them all in with one perfunctory sweep, face hardening when her eyes fell on Rumlow.

 

“Pierce wants to see you both,” she relayed when she'd finished nodding to the three of them, holding her bowed head a fraction longer for Bucky.

 

Rumlow was too busy turning to Bucky and Clint with a malicious grin to notice. “Go on then. Don't keep him waiting.” With an arrogant, antagonistic flick of the hand, he smirked the word, “Get,” and waited for the backdraft of Bucky’s fury.

 

But Clint was the one that went for him.

 

“You asshole,” he growled, grunting when the tips of Bucky’s fingers caught his shirt and Rumlow jumped back out of reach.

 

Rumlow’s delighted laugh faded when Zanab spoke again. “Actually,” she intercepted, dark eyes bright and looking directly at Rumlow. “He wants you. Barnes and you.”

 

Bucky watched Rumlow pale. His grin sunk into a frown at the exact moment Bucky’s spread into a slow smile.

 

Fingers twitching with adrenalin, Bucky stepped quickly into the space separating him and Rumlow. He'd only been on his way to the door, but he couldn't resist the opportunity to make his superior flinch. It worked, but it didn't last. Rumlow recovered quickly, eyes wide when Bucky got close enough that he could catch the scent of AB negative on Bucky’s skin.

 

With a cold drop in his stomach, Bucky watched as he handed back the reins on that triumphant smile, the victorious curl of lips falling from his face and reappearing on Rumlow’s as though it was a special brand of smile that only one of them could wear at any given moment.

 

And always, _always_ , at the other’s expense.

 

~

 

Of all the rooms in the mansion, this one was the coldest. Standing smack bang in the centre of the cavernous hall of stone and tile and underground vaults, Bucky was chilled to the bone, suffocated by a rather ironic sense of claustrophobia, and for the first time in the longest time, he felt threatened.

 

He knew he'd brought it on himself by knowingly and willfully defying the covenant and betraying his kind. He used to be so good at hiding behind his mask, but not now, not in this. The evidence was there for all to see; a tragic ballad tattooed on his skin then seared with scars.

 

He was falling in love with a lycan and he was terrified that Pierce would be able to read it right off his face.

 

Bucky’s relationship with Alexander Pierce was complex. Not father-son, almost certainly not friendship. Nothing as simple or easy as love or hatred or anger. Nothing like solid ground or home. But around the elder, Bucky had always felt useful, dependable, efficient. And in a life where he sought redemption and purpose, those emotions were golden.

 

It was one of the reasons he held back the words that were desperate to jump off his tongue: _I know my father’s still alive,_ swiftly followed by — and this was the important part — _Did you?_

 

His body practically twitched with the urge to say it, burning hot with a screaming recklessness that reminded him so much of someone else. Bucky felt as though some of Steve’s blood must have camped in his heart on its way through.

 

And that was the other reason to hold back. Steve.

 

Bucky was Pierce’s greatest asset, and he’d been counting on using that ace card to keep himself alive long enough to save Steve. Only now, meeting Pierce’s eyes across the room, Bucky was no longer confident about his chances.

 

“Bucky,” the elder said, measured and unreadable as he sat deadly still on his stone throne, gaunt under the hollow blue lights.

 

“My lord,” Bucky greeted, sinking to kneel on the floor. When he looked back up, Pierce’s lips were twisted, smiling in a way to say that a smile was the last thing on his mind.

 

Physically, Pierce was unremarkable to look at. It was everything else about him that made him strong and powerful. Dangerous. Even now when he should have been weak and frail from years of hibernation, he was more intimidating than anything Bucky had come across in all his years as a death dealer.

 

And now, for the very first time, Bucky was on the receiving end of Pierce’s sharp, needling stare. The indifference and intense scrutiny were making Bucky’s skin itch, and if he could have crawled out of it and left it behind, he would have done.

 

“Did you wake me?” Pierce demanded.

 

A slapping, icy echo of the words ripped through the room.

 

“No, I didn’t,” Bucky answered, mild in practiced deference.

 

Pierce’s lips twitched, quick and impatient. “Did you wake me?” he repeated, louder this time, irritation cultivating a low growl to rumble under the question.

 

Bracing himself against the urge to flinch, Bucky promptly answered, “No, my lord,” with every shred of authority he could draw upon.

 

Rumlow may have been spinning tales about Bucky, throwing stones like boulders, but it wasn't anything new. People were always trying to unseat him as Pierce’s favorite. The role of teacher’s pet was undoubtedly the most poisonous of poisoned chalices, but it meant he knew how to unpick the hastily run seams Rumlow had stitched him up with. It would take a little more than this to drag Bucky down.

 

Pierce looked long and hard, and then very slowly nodded. A dragging, crawling movement that almost looked satisfied. For now.

 

In the snap of a new second, Pierce turned to the other vampire in the room. The one who had been silent, hoping the room would swallow him whole.

 

In a voice coated with a lightness that only made it sound more deadly, Pierce stared Rumlow down and said, “It was you.”

 

Rumlow seized.

 

“How early was I woken?” Pierce asked Bucky, snapping back to Rumlow with a, “Don't speak,” when the vampire opened his mouth in defense.

 

Everyone knew it was against coven law to wake an elder outside of an official ceremony, and to do it even a day early or late was unthinkable. So it was with great pleasure that Bucky supplied, “Three hundred years too soon, sir.”

 

Bucky needed this. The opportunity to set the scene for Rumlow’s betrayal. Pierce wanted someone to blame for going against the covenant and it was the perfect distraction from the far more serious incursions hanging over Bucky’s head.

 

“He's been making pacts with the lycans,” Bucky added, keeping his voice painfully steady.

 

Rumlow flared. “That's ridiculous. _I'm_ not the one offering lycans asylum!”

 

It was too late. Bucky had pointed the finger first which made Rumlow’s countering accusation hold all the believability of a school child’s, _He did it first._

 

“He made a deal with Romanoff,” Bucky accused. “And she's a threat to us. A real threat with the munitions to back it up. Vampire funded munitions tha—”

 

“Romanoff is dead,” Pierce interrupted abruptly.

 

“I can prove she isn't.”

 

“And you'll have to,” Pierce told him firmly. “Like it or not, Rumlow is your superior, you can't throw unfounded accusations above your station.”

 

It wasn't cruel, it was fact. Pierce was saying it as it was and that went some way to settle Bucky’s nerves.

 

“Brock tells me you went rogue, leading an unsanctioned mission on unproven intelligence then refused to return to the mansion,” Pierce proposed with an unreadable voice.

 

Bucky blinked. The subway seemed so long ago.

 

“Yes sir,” he conceded calmly. “That much is true.” It was an agreement but one that also cast doubt over everything else Rumlow may have told Pierce.

 

Sensing the danger, Rumlow snarled. “But the human! Barnes is protecting him and there's something between them—”

 

“Enough,” Pierce interrupted just as Bucky’s veins felt like they were closing up.

 

Shifting with relief, Bucky cast his gaze back to Pierce, who was already looking at him intently. There was something hard returning to Pierce's eyes that made Bucky wonder if the fleeting relief he'd felt down to his toes had ever been there at all.

 

“We'll get to the human in a minute,” Pierce said slowly. “But what I will say, is that if there is indeed a human who knows about us. A human who may or may not have been bitten by a lycan. One that you have failed to cull and who you are keeping alive…” Stony eyes never once left Bucky. “Then you will kill him, or I will kill him myself. And then, though it would hurt me to lose you, I will kill you too.”

 

Bucky’s fangs extended and hit his bottom lip. The threat impacted squarely in his chest and something gave way, as though the slow puncture on everything he thought he knew, the one that had been bleeding him dry for days, had blown wide open.

 

Instead of flinching away from the sting on his lip, Bucky bit down harder as the very last thread of guilt ebbed out of him under a rising tide of anger.

 

“However,” Pierce continued, turning to Rumlow, “given your track record, and that I'd trust Bucky with the very stability of our coven, I want to hear what he has to say about this.”

 

Bucky wasn't sure he'd ever felt the need to sift through Pierce's words to unravel truth and lie before, but uncertainty scratched up his spine like wire wool as Pierce's attention fell on him again.

 

“Since I’ve been in hibernation, how many death dealers have you lost?”

 

“Two,” Bucky reported. “The same incursion. We were ambushed and the comms failed. The medic couldn’t get to us in time.”

 

Pierce nodded. “How many infractions from your team?

 

“None, my lord.”

 

“And the dignitaries I wanted you to meet?”

 

“Yes, all of them.”

 

Pierce’s eyes shifted Rumlow’s way. “You see how I can trust him? You see how reliable he is?”

 

Bucky wrung his hands behind his back. The words may have been meant as a compliment but they just made Bucky feel cheap.

 

“Now,” Pierce pinned his eyes on Bucky, voice lowering dangerously, “let's see if you can be that honest when you tell me about the human.”

 

Gut lurching, Bucky realized he'd just set the baseline reading for the most important lie detector test he'd ever take.

 

He didn't drop his eyes, didn't take a moment to steel himself. His body betrayed nothing. He knew that the acting he'd need to do to get out of this would hollow his heart, but that would have to wait till later.

 

The lies didn't even choke him on their way out. They washed the walls of his world white, but all he saw was blue.

 

~

 

He'd never dared before. But then, everything about Steve Rogers felt like a dare, and besides, it was too late to turn around now. So pulling the hood of his sweater over his hair, Bucky stepped out from under the mansion's porch into the light of day.

 

His escape from house arrest at Pierce’s sentencing was as easy as he’d predicted it would be. There was no sense of triumph though, not when words like _Pierce’s sentencing_ fell like rocks in his hollow stomach.

 

The list of things he refused to think about was simply spiraling, so why the hell was he going to the one man who’d draw it out of him in a blink?

 

Locking that thought away too, Bucky walked quickly across town, avoiding the pinpricks of sun that sliced through the clouds like god's very own fingers reaching down.

 

The temperature had broken ninety degrees for three days straight, sucking the life out of the asphalt and making it sticky. Bucky wished he could bask in the heat of it, cloying and thick, but his vampire instinct was in overdrive, weaving him through the crowded sidewalk to skirt the patches of ground where the shadows broke.

 

It was that instinct alone that got him to the apartment, intact but for a single burn that painted his right cheekbone red. He’d been so focused on reaching Steve without being followed that he hadn't noticed the crowd funneling out of the theatre as he passed, bodies inadvertently herding him out of the shade and into the sun.

 

The burn was already healing, little more than a smudge of rouge, but the smile in Steve’s voice when he murmured a soft, "Hey," disappeared as soon as he caught sight of it.

 

“I'm fine,” Bucky rushed to point out, breath catching a little.

 

Steve smelt like hazelnuts and cocoa. Even from the opposite side of the room, Bucky picked up the scent the way light catches floating dust, the wholesome sticky sweetness wrapping around him as he stepped through the door.

 

Bucky probably had Clint to thank for this particular torture — somewhere in the apartment there’d be a pile of empty Quest bar wrappers from his latest provision run. In fact, Bucky could see one now, sitting atop a stack of files on the floor next to where Steve was sitting, folder open, paper scattered around him and on every available surface.

 

Bucky should probably have asked what he was doing, it seemed important, but the warmth of that smell in light of everything that had happened in the last twenty four hours was making him want to break and fold. To launch himself into Steve’s chest, sink into the loose beat of his pulse and get high on it.

 

“Bucky?” Steve prompted quietly, standing up and starting forward as if he wanted to cross the space.

 

“Honestly, it's nothing. It didn't even hurt.”

 

Steve nodded. “But it's daylight and you're here. What happened?”

 

Bucky looked away, not ready yet. Not in any way ready yet.

 

There were memories of the night before on the counter, re-sealed bottles neatly standing sentry in a cluster and occupying the only space not consumed by paper. Bucky picked the closest bottle and poured into the nearest glass. The drink turned out to be champagne but despite the irony of drowning his sorrows in celebratory wine, Bucky wasn't going to be picky.

 

He'd have been perfectly happy in his silence, content to stare moodily into the liquid’s rosy glow, but Steve wasn't the sort to let questions go unanswered. Not when the answer held so much weight. So when Steve asked again, gentle words bundling Bucky up and making him shiver, he relented.

 

“Pierce is awake,” he reported grimly, tipping his glass in a bleak toast. “And I'm not sure he likes me all that much anymore.”

 

Steve tensed, anger simmering, firing, and for a moment Bucky almost flinched. Then he realized the dangerous flare in Steve’s eyes wasn't aimed at him, but at Pierce.

 

Steve took a big breath as though trying to hold down a biting curse, and frowned darkly. “What did he do? Tell me what happened, Bucky.”

 

It took a moment to think, and then to think twice, about telling Steve the full story. There was an unwanted swell of protective instinct trying to reprogram Bucky’s mind to keep Pierce from harm's way, but now that he could identify it, it was surprisingly easy to repress.

 

Yes, Pierce had disappointed him, shocked some of that ingrained loyalty from his bones, flushed it right out of the marrow, but ultimately his decision to tell Steve everything was less about revenge and more about the simple fact that he didn't want the responsibility of protecting Pierce anymore. He didn't want to keep his eyes open twenty-four seven, ready to spot all the ways Rumlow might be a traitor. Didn't want to be pressured into leading a group of death dealers that had the talent to lead themselves.

 

Every decision he was pressed to make, every shadow he was forced to watch, made him bitter to the core.

 

Bucky dragged his eyes up to meet Steve’s. “He believed me is the thing.”

 

“Don't defend him."

 

“I'm not,” Bucky asserted. “I'm just saying that he actually believed me. We would have gotten away with it.”

 

Pierce had almost seemed impressed. But smug, like he'd known he had the upper hand and it was time for Bucky to know it too.

 

 _“Excellent,”_ he’d said, except that it clearly wasn’t because Bucky had heard the hiss beneath.

 

For the first time, Bucky had sensed the trap, and now when he looked back over the years, he saw every time he'd been ensnared before.

 

“Well he would have believed me,” Bucky sighed, “if it weren't for the fact that his senses are enhanced beyond any other vampires’.”

 

 _“And now,”_ Pierce had said in a terrifying mimicry of politeness. _“Would you kindly explain to me why you smell of lycan.”_

 

It was game over. And Bucky should have seen it coming, but he’d spent so much time in Steve’s sweetly spiced musk, he no longer thought about what it meant anymore.

 

The sick show of mock disappointment on Pierce’s face when the answering lie had gotten stuck on Bucky’s tongue, an expression that suggested he actually cared when he didn't, meant nothing to Bucky after that.

 

“That's all there is to tell,” Bucky shrugged, having relayed the story to a strangely unreadable Steve. “I didn't deny it and he put me in the cells. Got out just before they turned the UV lamps on.”

 

Steve's expression turned cutthroat.

 

“It's standard procedure,” Bucky offered quietly. "Would only have burnt me a little. They're not strong enough to be fatal.”

 

Steve looked far from reassured and no less thunderous.

 

Bucky swallowed against the ache in his throat.It wasn't like he hadn't known this whole thing would blow up in his face from day one, but Pierce’s betrayal still hurt.

 

“I didn't even think. I just—” Suppressing a groan, he pressed his fingers against his face until red spots erupted behind his eyelids. “I fucked up.”

 

“It doesn't matter,” Steve said quietly. “He was never going to help us anyway. You’re safe and that’s what's important. You owe him nothing.”

 

Bucky kept his face downturned until Steve brushed two fingers along his jaw as though trying to draw out the melancholy. When Bucky looked up, it was to find his vision washed with vivid color. Steve’s eyes were so close, so clear.

 

God, Bucky was so attracted to him it almost hurt. There was no quantifying how drawn he was to the strength Steve didn't abuse. To his quick mind and smart mouth. To the way he was that unique sort of soul that craved peace but wouldn’t accept platitudes, who acknowledged when the glass was half empty but pressed on anyway.

 

Steve was shuttering the window, locking the sun's danger out, and Bucky didn’t deserve his time. He couldn't for the life of him work out why Steve hadn't gotten tired of all this shit yet — after all, it was Bucky’s shit and he'd be the first to say how really fucking boring it was.

 

“You may as well go to the lycans,” Bucky couldn't help but point out, letting his eyes lose focus so all he saw was a blur over Steve’s right shoulder. “You’re not safe here anymore.”

 

 

Steve frowned and pulled back so he could get a better look at Bucky’s face. “And just like that,” he said, dryly, “I'm free to leave?”

 

Bucky was thinking of locked doors, restraints, and vampire strength that may still not be a match for Steve, when he said, “If you wanted to leave, I don't think I could stop you.”

 

Steve looked at him, packing the air between them with meaning. “Then you're thinkin’ all wrong.”

 

Bucky’s eyes snapped up, tension cracking down his arms and into his fingertips as he searched Steve’s face.

 

What he saw made hope, hot and bright, bubble in his chest like the champagne fizzing on his tongue. Steve knew exactly what he was doing, and what he was doing was deliberately pushing them off course until they were forced to say what they really meant: that neither would leave the other because the two of them somehow meant something.

 

“You're so infuriating,” he told Steve, which wasn't the first thing on his mind by far, and the way his voice slid off pitch sold him out.

 

Steve smiled, oddly perfunctory as if to say, _if you say so_ , _now let's get back to the point._ “You came out in daylight, there has to be a reason. So what is it? Why are you here?”

 

“Pierce wants you dead,” Bucky said succinctly.

 

“Ah,” Steve huffed a sober laugh. He'd obviously known this was coming. “And he wants you to do it?”

 

Bucky opened his mouth a little, dumbstruck because Steve was exactly right but so very wide of the mark at the same time.

 

Steve watched him patiently as he nibbled at his bottom lip and trialed a few answers that ran out of steam after, “I _—_ ” and, “You…”

 

Eventually, he simply repeated, “He wants you dead,” and wondered how many times he'd have to say it before Steve got it. Before he _really_ , truly got it, because as intelligent as Steve was, sometimes he could be laughably oblivious where Bucky was concerned.

 

Steve’s eyes were dancing over Bucky's face, heart beating double time, so perhaps he was getting there.

 

One more time, Bucky thought, for luck. And if Steve didn't get it this time, his next plan would most likely start with a punch and hopefully end with Steve fucking him against a wall.

 

“He wants you dead,” Bucky breathed out, afraid that his eyes were flickering with too much emotion for Steve to capture just one.

 

But the look Steve was suddenly pinning him with was shattering. The understanding nod of his head so minute but monumental. Outside, one, two, three cars sped by.

 

“But _you_ don't,” Steve finally finished for him, sunlight breaking over his shoulders.

 

For the first time, Bucky dropped every pretence and act. “No, I don't,” he confirmed softly, “But you knew that anyway so I have no fucking clue why it took you this long.”

 

When Steve’s face broke into the smallest yet most breath-snatching smile, Bucky felt lightheaded.

 

Despite his insecurities’ best attempts at destroying it, the moment felt urgent. The room smaller. It was the sort of moment you wanted to feel endlessly but ended up rushing away from. Unexpectedly intense and swiftly diffused, the kind of moment that people let slip through their fingers in movies.

 

The kind that Steve Rogers apparently doesn’t.

 

Maybe Bucky was blinded by the sun or too busy fighting the undercurrent of want, but he somehow failed to spot the instant Steve chose to cross the gap. By the time he'd registered the flash of wicked determination in darkening blue eyes, his lips were covered with Steve’s and he was gasping into a kiss that was hot and insistent and leading.

 

It was so good that for a solid second, Bucky was motionless, stunned by the _fucking finally_ of it all.

 

When his brain started refiring, Steve’s hands were framing his face, sliding into his hair, a noise in his throat that sounded like he wanted Bucky so much it might hurt. It went straight to Bucky’s bloodstream. And just like that, he was more drunk off Steve’s kiss than the liquor that was slipping from his fingers to smash onto the floor, more dizzy than he'd felt with the drug of Steve’s blood on his tongue, leaving Bucky to think that if anything was going to kick start his heart again, maybe this would be it. It didn't — of course it didn't — but for the first time, with Steve's lips slick and tasting of golden caramel and the whisper of the first kiss they'd shared, he finally felt undead.

 

Bucky rushed a step closer, tilting his head to match Steve's urgent kisses with his own, desperate to prove that his shock hesitation hadn’t been rejection, just his fuck drunk brain messing with him. Desperate to think that he might actually be allowed to have this, to snatch it up with both hands before it disappeared to ash in front of his eyes.

 

“Wait,” he felt Steve mutter against his lips. It was no louder than a whisper and Bucky was having a hard time understanding what it meant. All he knew was that it didn't seem to matter too much with Steve's huge hands warm and solid on his hip and curling around his neck.

 

Blood scorched under Bucky’s skin, roaring white noise in his ears. It rubbed his mind blank as he leant across the gap to reconnect their lips, but Steve was pulling back and away and making Bucky’s whole body want to sob.

 

“Bucky, wait,” Steve repeated, so calm it was chaotic, as he lifted Bucky’s chin up with a thumb and finger to catch his eyes. He'd been half hard against Bucky’s thigh not a second ago and now he was stopping, and Bucky’s head might be fuzzy but none of it made a damn bit of sense. “I should have asked before now,” Steve continued, “Is this okay?”

 

“Yes,” Bucky didn't hesitate to say, eyes fixed on the puffy, kiss red lips he was currently missing out on. It didn't matter that he'd forgotten the question, he was sure that yes covered it and more.

 

He abruptly nudged Steve’s fingers off his chin so that he could move closer, frowning when his lips landed off centre as Steve twisted away. Bucky’s hiss of displeasure was in the space between them before he could stop it.

 

The sound was animal, immortal, and Bucky was instantly jerking back, alert for signs of fear or anger on Steve's face, but other than a firm undeterred resolve, his expression stayed calm. Sometimes it wasn't difficult to remember that Steve was a hunter too; there was a fading silvery scar left by Romanoff’s bite to prove it but in truth, he probably always had been.

 

“Listen,” Steve was saying firmly, barely blinking, waiting for Bucky’s attention before he continued. “Do you want this?”

 

 _There_. Bucky had known that yes was right. If it weren't for the determined little furrow between Steve’s eyebrows, he'd have gone right ahead and reattempted that kiss, but it was obvious it would send him running into another brick wall.

 

Bucky had a sudden, sickening thought and he caught Steve’s eyes quickly. “Shit, do _you_ want this?”

 

Steve startled a quiet laugh that made it sound as though Bucky had said the most ironically amusing thing he’d ever heard. “Yes, I do,” he said very seriously, “but I'm still not convinced you really do. ‘Mortal enemies’ remember.”

 

Bucky opened his mouth slightly in surprise but said nothing for a few long minutes until Steve reminded him, “I'm not doing anything until you answer me.”

 

“Yes, I want it,” Bucky said, quick like a switch had been flipped. He licked his lips. “Wasn't it obvious?”

 

“Obvious?” Steve repeated, face an emotional cocktail of genuine surprise, desire and doubt. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

 

Entirely serious, Bucky shivered in his bubble of unbroken tension, thinking of all the times his defenses had failed, giving Steve unrestricted access to his cracked foundations. He was almost proud — he must have hidden it a hell of a lot better than he thought — but he was mainly just irate that he and Steve were still standing a foot apart when they should be flush together.

 

“Yes, obvious,” he quickly said, stepping forward to slot their hips together only to be stopped in his tracks by Steve’s hands on his biceps. “Steve, what now? Are you fucking kidding me?”

 

Steve smirked and Bucky very nearly told him which hell dimension he could fuck off to but that kind of attitude probably wouldn't get him where he wanted to be, so perhaps the truth was the next best thing.

 

“Course I want it,” he almost whispered. He was striving for impatient but it came out breathless. “I can't even tell you how much I've wanted it.”

 

“It wasn't obvious,” Steve asserted softly, but he was already hovering closer, eyes skittering over Bucky’s face, bright with relief, “But I guess it is now.”

 

Bucky grinned ferally, breath coming fast with excitement. He was still hard when Steve pulled him back in, hadn't flagged a bit. If Steve taking a time out to laugh incredulously during foreplay didn't lighten Bucky’s lust, he didn't know what that said about his chances here. He was clearly in way too deep.

 

Fisting a hand around a buckle, Steve roped him closer, licking into his mouth until he moaned, hot hands moving over his hips to splay low and protective on the curve of his back.

 

The moans spilled then, partly because Steve kissed like he did everything else — first into the fray, impulsive and all consuming — partly because Bucky was fucking loving letting go, relishing Steve's mouth travelling over his jaw to tuck into his neck, but mostly because he owed Steve a reaction. If he didn't know by now that Bucky had wanted him since a dirty-dark roof and a thirty foot jump into his life, then that needed putting right. He deserved to know. For making Bucky feel anything and everything.

 

“Knew you were gonna fuck me up when I saw you on that platform,” Bucky purred into Steve’s ear.

 

“Yeah,” Steve chuckled, hot and humid against his neck, punctuating it with kisses. “‘Cause you knew I'd be trouble for you.”

 

Bucky shook his head. Trust Steve to totally misunderstand him. “Because I thought you were special,” he corrected, letting out a breathy _aah_ at the swipe of tongue against his skin. “And hot.”

 

Steve’s lips slowed against Bucky’s neck, eyes flickering up, mouth forming a little _o_ as if this was somehow news. As if they were thinking back on the Steve from the subway with very different opinions on the word ‘hot’. It made Bucky grip Steve’s shoulders tighter, nudge their temples together and hope his fondness didn’t drown them.

 

“So hot,” he said, low into Steve’s ear, sliding his hand under Steve’s tee to smooth down over the silky skin and soft bumps of his spine. “ _Still_ hot. Guess I don't have a type.”

 

“Guess not,” Steve chuckled. And how he could laugh when Bucky could barely string a sentence together, Bucky didn't know.

 

Steve was smiling, but something shifted in Bucky. It was suddenly important that Steve knew how fussy he was. That really he hadn't known what he wanted until he met Steve. “Actually, I do.” He scratched at Steve’s lower back and caught his eyes. “Now I know _exactly_ what I like.”

 

Steve blinked for a second then slowly smiled back in understanding, eyes darkening when Bucky licked along his bottom lip before letting his teeth sink in.

 

“God, Bucky,” Steve murmured, nudging Bucky’s lip out from between his teeth.

 

It was just a whisper, a beautifully reverent whisper, but it got Bucky hot. He pushed himself closer, and when there was nowhere closer to be, he let his strength press Steve back a stumbling step, because Steve could take it and more.

 

“You can hardly talk anyway,” Steve said, widening his stance and easily rebalancing them. “Nobody was looking at me on that platform. Not when there was you to look at.”

 

Bucky pulled an offended face to cover the way his breath caught. “Uh, excuse me,” he protested, trailing his thumb along the denim inseam of Steve’s inner thigh, right to the top, “but nobody was looking at me. Like every good assassin, I was invisible.”

 

“Until the bullets fired,” Steve breathed against Bucky’s lips, “but I saw you before that. You know I did.”

 

Goosebumps skittered over the back of Bucky’s neck and down his arms as he thought back on that moment.

 

“How could I not?” Steve continued, thumb finding the dip in Bucky’s chin. “How could I not want you?”

 

Bucky dragged in a breath, felt his body scream.

 

The next kiss turned filthy, quickly. Bruising and open as they fell against the wall with a thud and a crack of masonry that barely registered. Steve pinned him there, catching his lips again and again.

 

Then it was all rough fingers dragging up leather and palming thick thighs. Quick fingers bunching up cotton to reveal the curve of pale hips. Whatever the touch, Bucky’s skin burst into flames and Steve drew deep breaths through his nose and made little rumbles of need that vibrated in his chest.

 

“Steve,” Bucky moaned, working the word between kisses when the back of his hands felt the scratch of exposed brick. He’d never heard his voice sound like that before; certainly not in this century. It felt like they were working through years of unresolved tension, but, “Fuck, has it only been a week?”

 

“Almost two,” said Steve. “Long enough to imagine all the ways I wanted you.” He rewarded Bucky’s whimper with another crushing kiss that set a fire low in his belly. “Me. You. Everywhere within these four walls.”

 

Bucky’s stomach twisted deliciously. Suddenly every benign surface in the apartment looked shiny and new. How many times had Steve seen that mattress and imagined Bucky spread out across it? How many times had he thought about taking Bucky apart, pinned down against the slick chill of the countertop?

 

Bucky blinked back into the room when he heard Steve sigh, hands roaming Bucky’s body like they could never be quick or big enough. “Who put you in leather and buckles? And, holy _fuck_ , rubber.”

 

Laughing breathlessly, Bucky dragged himself away from Steve just far enough to furiously start unfastening. “Caught you looking a few times,” he threw out there, so turned on it was almost a drawl.

 

Steve blushed and cleared his throat, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Was just trying to work out how you get in it.”

 

Finding a gap in the lust clouding his head, Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Or how you'd get me out of it?”

 

His smirk didn't last long once Steve had the heel of his hand pressed against his already desperately hard cock.

 

“A-ah, fuck!” Bucky cried, body jolting at the touch, hand bracing against Steve's chest to stop himself folding at the waist.

 

His hips moved helplessly against Steve's open palm. “Yeah, I looked,” Steve breathed, feeling merciful and increasing the pressure of his hand. “Never thought I could have you. I had to listen to no less than nine lectures about how vampires and lycans disgust each other.”

 

“I talk a lot of shit,” Bucky gasped, rushing to get the words out before they trailed into a moan. “You said so yourself.”

 

Steve huffed a laugh, lust tinting it with a strained quality as he batted Bucky’s fingers from his jacket zips. “I got this.”

 

As promised, Steve took over, putting both hands to work on unbuckling and unzipping in almost the exact right order.

 

He slipped the jacket from Bucky’s shoulders remarkably efficiently considering Bucky was crowding his space and uncooperatively rocking his hips against his thigh all the while.

 

Bucky whined when Steve’s hands smoothed his skin from collarbone to waist.

 

“Hold on,” Steve admonished gently, using his grip on the leather belt to ease Bucky back a step and tug his pants down to rest under the curve of his ass. “You don't have much patience do you?”

 

Well… no. To Bucky it was all taking too long and he was starting think it was less about patience and more about being driven insane.

 

The reward when it came though was definitely worth it. Steve gripped his dick in one hand, letting him buck into the tight circle his fingers made. The other hand slid down the line of Bucky’s spine, tripping over the small of his back and slipping lower as he stole the delighted gasp from Bucky’s lips.

 

Bucky needed a moment because his eyes were saturated with a blissful white and he wasn’t sure if he’d dead bolted the door, or where he’d put his glock, or which way was up.

 

And it was just as well because he _had_ forgotten something. Reluctantly he pulled his body out of the cocoon of Steve’s arms.

 

He hated it, even this small distance, but Steve used it as an opportunity to properly look at him, muttering a hissing, “Fuck,” as his eyes tracked up and down Bucky’s bare body. His pupils were huge, blue long gone. “You're so beautiful.”

 

Bucky trembled and his cock twitched.

 

Before Steve’s brain kicked back in and started reimagining non-existent doubts in Bucky’s head, Bucky was quick to point out that despite breaking away, he wasn't stopping anything.

 

Well, maybe something.

 

“Hang on, I need to turn this off,” he muttered, looking for a lead at the back of the blank monitor on the desk. “You can thank me later,” he whispered at the hidden camera before deactivating the surveillance and cutting the feed that Clint was meant to be intermittently monitoring.

 

He turned around cautiously, half expecting Steve to blow up. There was no point pretending. Bucky had brought the spy cam to Steve’s attention seven days too late to prove that he was trustworthy. He’d just have to hope that there was enough trust already established to withstand this deceit. And it was a deceit, even if it was unintentional.

 

He met Steve's eyes, contrite and honest. Without his heat, Bucky shivered, the smack of cold air showering his naked skin. “I swear, I'd genuinely forgotten about it. I'd have deactivated it days ago if I'd remembered.”

 

Steve would likely turn him away now, and while it would probably ruin him, Bucky would understand. At least he'd been honest and now the decision was Steve’s. It left a floaty, weightless feeling in Bucky’s chest.

 

As it happened, Steve seemed too far gone to rage, eyes dark and watching Bucky as he hauled in breaths that probably didn't make it to his lungs before they were shakily exhaled. But not too far gone, it would seem, to lock eyes and tilt his head pointedly.

 

Maybe he'd haul Bucky over the coals later.

 

Maybe he'd known the camera was there all along.

 

“Of course you knew,” Bucky grumbled before he gave in to a grin. He kicked his pants the rest of the way off before crossing the distance to crash back into Steve's chest.

 

“Yeah, but you're still in trouble,” Steve said for the record, growling low into Bucky’s neck, bristle scratching, teeth digging in dangerously.

 

Bucky grinned wider. He rolled against Steve, barely coherent when he felt the rasp of a belt and soft cotton against his skin, completely naked to Steve’s fully clothed. It was unbearably hot.

 

Looking down, he saw his cock drip a damp patch into Steve’s jeans. The sight dragged a filthy whine from the back of his throat.

 

He curled his fingers around Steve’s belt and held on as he dropped to his knees, pushing Steve’s tee up with one hand to follow the barely there trail of hair with the other until he could slip the belt undone, pop the buttons, and mouth at the head of Steve’s cock through the thin material of his boxers.

 

“Fuck, _fuck_ , Bucky,” Steve cursed, his voice a full octave higher, which meant it was still low but stroked Bucky’s ego all the same.

 

He was so hard already, dick kicking when Bucky nuzzled along the length of him, breath coming heavier when Bucky got a finger under the elastic and pulled it out the way so his tongue could kitten lick over the tip.

 

Just the sight of Steve watching on with glossy eyes had Bucky’s cock filling up until he was throbbing. It was possible Steve had noticed, but it was also possible that it was Bucky’s mouth, still working him with tiny licks then sweeping circles, that was making his stomach clench under Bucky’s other hand.

 

Steve’s skin was glowing, mussed hair telling the tale of Bucky’s wild fingers, desire laced into the little furrows they'd made not so long ago. Bucky’s hair was probably spinning a very similar story if the way he could feel Steve’s fingers thread and twist was anything to go by. 

 

The tight knit Steve had on his hair meant that Bucky felt him freeze the exact moment he pulled Steve’s dick out and curled his fingers around it. The gasp that accompanied the abrupt stillness didn't seem like a good sign.

 

Bucky tensed. “What's wrong?”

 

The question startled Steve into movement. He smoothed his thumb across Bucky's cheek, and said, “Nothing. Don't— don't stop. Your hands are cold, that's all.”

 

Bucky dropped them quickly, ready to apologize when Steve quieted him, leaning right down to kiss away the frown.

 

“It doesn't matter. I don't want you to stop.” Steve swallowed. “I like it.”

 

Bucky raised an eyebrow, but he was smiling again, as well as he could smile when all his mouth wanted to do was be full of Steve.

 

He slid a cool palm back up Steve’s body as far as he could reach and encouraged him upright again. The left hand he wrapped back around Steve's shaft and watched Steve’s eyes slide out of focus as he caught a pearl of precome on his tongue.

 

Retracing his steps up Steve’s abdomen with barely-there nips, Bucky hummed. It wasn’t teasing if he made good on its promise. And as much as he liked to tease, his willingness to please was written all over the way he sunk forward, taking Steve in his mouth, opening his throat and sliding his lips down in one smooth glide.

 

It wasn't teasing. But the way he dragged the soft inside of his wet lips over and off the tip, opening his mouth just enough to show Steve the slick glistened head of his own cock lying on the curve of his tongue, probably felt a little bit like teasing.

 

Steve made a broken noise.

 

It sounded like permission to Bucky. Permission to carry on just the way he was. Blowing him in a lewd mimic of what they both wanted. A euphemistic dress rehearsal.

 

He sunk back down and swallowed, fucked his mouth on Steve twice more before pulling back.

 

“It’s not teasing,” he murmured, voice rough, spit-soaked lips smiling as he ran them up and down the velvety length before mapping the same path with his tongue.

 

“No,” Steve agreed through clenched teeth, “it’s showing off.”

 

Given time Bucky knew he could get Steve off like this, and quickly at that. The thighs under his fingers trembled slightly, broad hands a heavy weight on his shoulders as Steve buckled over him, hips jerking helplessly, and mouth spilling secrets of how much he wanted it.

 

Steve leant into him even more as he flicked his tongue over the slit. Whether he’d forgotten his new stature and the weight of that muscle, or simply knew Bucky could handle it, Bucky couldn't care. He just hollowed his cheeks and sucked Steve down until he could feel him hit the back of his throat.

 

“Holy shit Buck, your mouth,” Steve breathed, hands either side of his head, fingers cupping his skull, thumbs pressing little spasming circles in front of his ears. “You're too good at that. _Shit,_  you have to stop.”

 

Reluctantly, Bucky rocked back on his heels, slipping his cold cheek along Steve’s cock and absently wondered whether the chill would pull Steve back from the edge or send him over it. Either way, Bucky would chalk it up as a win.

 

A breath later, Steve pulled back and hauled him up, walking him backwards while he sucked the taste of salt from Bucky’s tongue.

 

Bucky let himself be pushed onto the mattress, could tell he was looking up with eyes that were so wide. He wondered if they were anywhere near as wild as he felt. Whether they were red-rimmed and blazing, if his loss of control had turned them luminous vampire blue.

 

Whatever Steve saw, he seemed to like it. Made him squeeze his own cock reflexively and his chest heave. Bucky wasn't in the position to judge though. Not with Steve ripping his tee over his head and exposing corded muscle. Bucky raked his eyes up and down, mapping all that was _now_ over the blueprint of all that was _then_. Narrow waist a little thicker, shoulders twice as wide, determined jaw just the same.

 

The jut of collarbone that had peeked out of a bloodied t-shirt only a couple of weeks ago could still be found, glistening with sweat. It was quite the sight, and it went to Bucky’s head. His tongue was tracing the sheen away before he was even aware he’d made the decision to close the distance.

 

It was such a risk. Stone cold sober, he wouldn't trust his teeth anywhere near Steve’s neck, let alone skimming the thump of his throbbing pulse. He was holding on to self-restraint by a fraying thread.

 

Just as well Steve chose that moment to distract him with the dizzying declaration of, “Wanna eat you out.”

 

Bucky hissed out an enthusiastic, “Yes,” and bounced onto his stomach. The “ _please,”_ he threw over his shoulder came a beat later; as if Steve needed persuading, which was laughable because he'd already been lowering himself on to the bed, a solid, heavy weight at Bucky's back, so close he must have felt Bucky quiver.

 

Molten heat rolled over Bucky’s body when Steve bracketed his spine with his hands and drew them down, burning away the touch of anyone who’d come before, anyone who'd touched what was Steve’s — hands Steve didn't even know, and ones Bucky didn't care to remember.

 

Steve thumbed the dips of his spine, then he was flipping Bucky back over, swallowing his protests, reaching down to make a loose fist around his cock again. Bucky stretched out underneath him, tipping his head back into the mattress as Steve started in on his clavicles, kisses moving down to follow the rapid rise and fall of his chest, littering him with suckling bruises until Bucky’s skin was a landscape that undoubtedly belonged to Steve.

 

He was so keyed up, so overwhelmed, that his brain didn't know how to compute it. But his body knew, it rolled with it, against Steve and into his hand. He was so close to begging already and he couldn't even summon any shame.

 

Steve was retracing his steps, reworking already prominent marks.

 

“Want to mark me up?” Bucky lilted. “Purple looks good on me.”

 

He didn’t know what about that sentence made Steve grip hard on his hips and bite the meat of his shoulder, but he liked it. Liked it a whole lot. Until he saw through the fire of pleasure pain to how deep Steve’s teeth were digging.

 

“Stop stop, don't draw blood,” he rushed. “You don’t bite me, I don’t bite you. No biting.”

 

Looking like was torn between laughing or crying, Steve nuzzled into Bucky’s neck, drawing in deep breaths before nodding into the curve. “Yeah, alright.”

 

Apparently recovered from any disappointment, Steve turned Bucky back onto his belly and dragged him up to his knees in one swift tug where the sheets were too far away for friction but where he could start daring to hope that Steve was planning to keep to his earlier plan. Steve’s mouth at least was headed in the right direction.

 

Bucky’s toes were curling by the time Steve had worked his way to licking a hot stripe over his rim. He'd felt every little touch leading up to it like a high volt charge to his nervous system; every rasp of stubble at the small of his back, each soft nudge of Steve’s nose into the dimples at the dip of his spine, the puffs of breath pushing aside the chilly air to ghost over the inside of his thighs.

 

At the first flick of Steve’s tongue, teasing and light, Bucky rocked with pleasure, gasping loudly as if oxygen was the answer, which of course it wasn't. He could despair over the fact that his body never learnt, but then, why would he if it brought him that much closer to Steve.

 

“Don't hold back,” Steve told him, pulling him back by the hips and massaging the flesh. “Wanna hear you.”

 

He swirled his tongue, drawing out the moan he'd asked for as if Bucky couldn't help but obey, hands squeezing hard when Bucky dipped his hips to try and find the bed sheet with his dick. He spread Bucky’s cheeks with his thumbs and Bucky couldn't have argued even if he'd wanted to. _“Fuck.”_

 

Steve worked him, slow but purposeful, greedy, until Bucky’s brain was scattered and he wondered if maybe he couldn't take it anymore. If he kept thinking about all the times and how desperately he'd wanted this — Steve and affection and pleasure and _Steve_ — he might break.

 

When Steve deemed him ready, throwing in a few extra minutes because Bucky was so unbelievably responsive, he darted his tongue inside.

 

Bucky arched, filling the room with a high whine that cracked and petered out to nothingness. His elbows gave out and dropped him to his forearms in unharacteritic clumsiness.

 

“Knew you had an achilles heel,” Steve teased.

 

“You knew more than that,” Bucky replied, voice rough and fucked out. He bit down on his arm, feeling like he might pass out if he let himself think too much about how his cheeks must be scratched raw and running with spit. “‘Not fucking obvious,’” he mimicked sarcastically, grinding the words out through clenched teeth.

 

“It wasn’t,” Steve insisted, licking back inside straight away.

 

“It was,” Bucky retorted adamantly. “It really was.”

 

It took Steve by surprise when Bucky straightened up, twisted at the waist to push at his ridiculous shoulders until he dropped back onto the mattress.

 

Smoothly, and with a smirk in his eyes, Bucky moved so that his knees were spread and planted either side of Steve’s shoulders, hovering above Steve’s slightly surprised but entirely delighted face.

 

He waited for Steve’s eyes to lift enough that he could see the spark in them before grinning back and rocking down so that Steve’s lips were back where he needed them, humming a contented noise that vibrated against his sensitive skin and zigzagged up his core.

 

Bucky sunk forward and clutched the sheets in his fists as he rolled into the broad swipe of Steve’s tongue. He lost himself in the steady rhythm, the sinuous curving of his body and the way Steve let him have it for minutes on end.

 

Having been good for nothing but pleased whines and whimpers for the past god knew how long, it was completely unexpected when actual words spilled from Bucky’s lips — even to Bucky himself, who'd settled into the noises, faint but getting louder, and hadn't thought to stop them.

 

His mouth had other ideas.

 

“Want you to fuck me.”

 

Bucky saw Steve’s eyes widen for a split second, then felt rather than heard his whisper soft laugh when he turned his head to bite sharply at the meat of Bucky’s ass cheek.

 

“Not your call though is it?” he pointed out evenly.

 

How Bucky stopped himself from tumbling a blissed out moan or grinding down hard on Steve’s face, he would never work out, but the quiver that raced down his entire body probably betrayed him anyway.

 

“Beautiful,” Steve muttered for second time under his breath, hands sweeping up the back of Bucky’s thighs as he watched him melt under the praise.

 

It felt like hours later that Bucky tried again. Long enough that Steve's jaw must have been aching, getting Bucky to the brink of coming again and again, then holding his hips still, winding him back again.

 

“Please. Steve. Need you to fuck me, please,” he begged, low and rough, words coming together like the best kind of tongue tied. He looked down at Steve imploringly, stared straight into shining, hungry eyes.

 

This time, Bucky supposed Steve agreed given that he hummed amenably, gripped Bucky by the hips and dropped him front down onto the mattress. He rolled over to rock his hips in a slow purposeful grind against Bucky’s thigh, and said, “Hand me the lube and I will.”

 

Halfway to letting a triumphant grin show his canines, Bucky froze. “Shit,” he groaned. “I don't—”

 

Steve bowed his head, thumping it gently against the curve of Bucky’s shoulder. “You telling me that you’ve got dozens of those knives hidden away and not a single bottle of lube?”

 

Bucky summoned enough energy to glare. “I’m an assassin not a sex worker.”

 

He'd argue that Steve had licked him wet enough, but he'd seen Steve. Had felt him stretching his lips. “What about gun oil?”

 

“No, Bucky,” Steve tutted with a hot pant on his skin, “that's a terrible idea,” to which Bucky threw a dirty look over his shoulder. “It could hurt you,” Steve added like the mere thought hurt _him_.

 

Bucky rolled his eyes.

 

Taking a deep breath, Steve winced a little. “We should maybe stop?” And if it weren't for the reluctance and disappointment in his voice, Bucky might have flipped over and punched him in the face.

 

But he had a better idea anyway. He snapped a hand back to splay wide on Steve’s ass, pulling roughly so that Steve’s cock slid between Bucky’s cheeks. “Raincheck, then?”

 

Steve let out a strangled cry. “Gun oil’s fine.”

 

Bucky grinned even though he was almost positive that Steve would try and divert him with a mutual hand job or a pinned down hump. All of which Bucky considered to be perfectly acceptable plan Bs, though he wasn't quite ready to show his cards yet. Not when he was still aiming high.

 

“Wait,” Steve said abruptly.

 

 _Wait_. That word again, only better because this time it sounded like a prelude to a bright idea, and was accompanied by a tighter grip on Bucky’s hair that made him gasp. His head tilted back, canines flashing in the light.

 

When the delicious weight at his back lifted and he heard a _zip_ and a rustle, he was too busy whining into the mattress and losing his mind to connect the dots. Then in quick succession, the floor dipped under him, Steve grinned between his shoulder blades and a slicked finger teased its way between his cheeks to press inside.

 

“Where’d you get that?” Bucky panted.

 

“Supply run.”

 

Bucky frowned. “ _Clint’s_ supply run?!”

 

If it weren't for the trail of wet kisses Steve was pressing against his flank and the pad of a finger curling to rub over his prostate, he might have taken up the case for gun oil again. As it was, he had to squeeze his eyes shut while he rode out the wave of pleasure racing through him, sending him blind and writhing down into the mattress.

 

The movement had Steve’s spare hand skidding up Bucky’s body to slave a palmful of lube across his abs in what seemed to be a complete accident. For a complete accident, Steve took advantage of the situation with impressive speed, sliding his hand up Bucky’s torso to flick his nails over neglected nipples. His other hand was busy fucking three fingers in and out, the front of his body an electric blanket over Bucky’s back.

 

Only when Bucky was thrashing and purring, ready to come whether Steve’s cock was inside him or not, did the fingers ease out.

 

“You feel so good,” Steve panted, tongue trailing rippling muscle. He nudged his cock against Bucky’s skin, fingers tightening when it bumped over his hole, licked open and shiny with spit and lube. “So tight.”

 

Bucky blushed and keened.

 

“You ready?”

 

Looking over his shoulder, Bucky cleared his throat and looked up through his eyelashes. “Yeah, yes. Just go easy. It's been...”

 

Steve faltered. There was concern in his voice and etched in every line of his beautiful face when he asked, “It's been what, exactly?”

 

Bucky wasn't sure he had enough patience in reserve for the current lack of friction on his dick or the emptiness inside, but Steve was looking at him like Bucky might have been hurt in the past, and that wasn’t quite the reaction Bucky had been hoping for. So he forced a deep breath and restrained himself long enough to answer. “A while.”

 

The relieved sigh and the proprietary flicker in Steve’s eye came at almost the same moment. He wrapped a possessive arm around Bucky’s waist, speaking straight in his ear. “You know I’ll take care of you, but I don’t think you want easy. Not really.”

 

Bucky preened. That was more like it. “Maybe I just wanted to let you know that it’s only you,” he shrugged with as much nonchalance as he could muster considering he was halfway to wrecked. “You can go as hard as you like.”

 

“Only me,” Steve told him, eyes lost in eyes. “Always me.”

 

The air thickened with that. _Always_ created too much heat for laughter, reminded them that there was too much riding on this for playful banter. Bucky thought that in another life they could have that. If there was ever a time when they weren’t running, if they could count in days not lunar cycles and Bucky was only thirsty for water. Thing was, they'd never have the chance to find out. The thought twisted something in his gut that had been wringing him dry for days. It made him urgent, turned the atmosphere heavy and intense.

 

 _Always_ was a pipe dream, and Steve must have realized. It was there in the way he mouthed gentle, open mouthed kisses to the ridges of Bucky’s spine and in the dip behind his ear, cloaking him in a way that made Bucky feel small like he’d never been before. It all felt like more than sex as Steve pressed inside him, pausing with a gasp when the head of his dick was clutched tight.

 

The stretch was obscenely good. “More,” Bucky choked out, snapping his hips forward then seeking back, already trying to work himself on Steve's cock. He ground his fist into the mattress. “Come on, _more_.”

 

If Bucky was worried the demand would lead to the exact opposite of what he wanted, he was wrong. Steve must have heard the plea woven into the words, or else couldn’t hold back, because his big hands were fitting Bucky’s waist, taking a moment to grip firmly and then thrusting forward, knocking Bucky up the mattress with his thrusts, and making Bucky whine low in his throat.

 

Steve stilled, sunk in to the hilt, and Bucky would have been worried but for the stuttering roll of his hips and the muttered, “Fuck,” that came next.

 

After a moment, he resumed his controlled, gliding thrusts which somehow still felt controlled even as they turned wilder, slamming into Bucky with a delicious smack of skin. Gasping Bucky’s name, Steve’s hands dug in against hip bones before palming down to squeeze the meat of his thighs. “God, Bucky.”

 

Bucky’s heart turned over. When all of this had started he’d hoped that Steve would help him forget his own name, but he couldn't now. Not with Steve saying it like he was re-imagining the word afresh. Like nobody had ever said it quite right before.

 

The burst of pleasure when Steve found his prostate was raw and electric. He kicked out at the hot shock of it, upending a table and sending it splintering against the wall with a scatter of guns.

 

Violently blue eyes flew open on a breathy curse, but all he saw was white. There was nothing in his head but the maddening drag of Steve’s dick inside him, the breathy little _ahs_ he made to the rhythm set by Steve’s hips. A steady stream of bared desires, stripped down need, raw and heady, that worked his tongue loose and caused his wrists to ache with the need to be cuffed.

 

“I want you to pin me down,” Bucky sighed, low and raspy and without his permission. He panicked when the words registered, choking on the air that was desperate to form the end of the sentence. “Shit,” he hissed, muscles bunching and ready to run if Steve balked.

 

Before he could go anywhere, Steve took his wrists in hand, tight enough that it felt like his pulse was slowing and thickening, relaxing into a heady trickle of peace.

 

“I've got you,” Steve whispered, then the tip of his dick found its mark again and Bucky’s spine arched as he crushed the edge of the mattress in his fists.

 

He stopped there, suspended, torn between rolling his hips in a dirty grind to get more of the feeling and freezing exactly where he was for fear of losing it completely. Steve made the decision for him, pulling him upright into the cradle of his arms so that the back of Bucky's thighs were resting on the front of Steve’s. A splayed palm on his stomach held him still in Steve’s lap.

 

They stayed that way for a few gasping moments, Steve thick and deep inside him, nails trailing the trickle of hair leading down from his belly button, until Steve breathed out an, “Alright,” and prompted Bucky with a low, “Can you move for me, Buck?”

 

Bucky quickly found a steady rhythm that he could keep whilst his brain adjusted to the overload of sensation. He ground up and sunk down, thighs clenching and cock bobbing. And all the while, Steve’s heart kicked against his back, his arms the anchor that grounded him, holding him steady as Bucky’s body undulated, hips rolling in Steve’s lap as he muttered a torrent of nonsense that ended in, “Please, Steve, please.”

 

Steve started flexing his hips in shallow rocks, curling up to meet him, fixing the rhythm when Bucky’s hips stuttered. His hands were tight and unrelenting on Bucky’s waist, and Bucky had to look down, memorize the white pressure marks before his body pushed them out, healing where he didn't want to be healed.

 

When Steve’s fingertips came up to dance over his lips, stroking the tip of his tongue when he parted them, Bucky zoned out. He wasn't aware that he was shoving his hips all the way down, plastering his body back to cover himself with Steve.

 

“Bucky, are you okay?” Steve asked an indeterminate amount of time later.

 

The words slowly threaded through the silvery cotton and golden clouds but it took longer to realize that Steve wasn't talking about the wet tracks on Bucky’s face where he was kissing the salt away, but that Bucky’s body had completely stopped. His ass was flush with Steve’s pelvis, back slack against Steve’s abs and chest, head thrown over his shoulder, completely loose. The only movement came when he pressed back now and then with nowhere to go, fractional movements to check he was as close as he could be. Every time it probably threatened to unbalance Steve, but he simply adjusted and carried on kissing up stray tears.

 

Draped over every inch, Bucky could feel the rumble of his name from chest to back. A prompt.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky murmured with a shivering sigh that caught around Steve fingers. He sounded completely gone.

 

Somewhere in the fuzzy tornado Bucky found himself, it occurred to him that despite the lack of practice, it was shockingly easy to be vulnerable again. To sink down and surrender. To let Steve ruin him. He'd never felt like this before. Like his mind could blow and his knees might fail. It was so strong — this urge to be weak. “I’m, yeah...It’s—s’good.”

 

He blinked, wet lashes lowering and lifting slowly as if they weighed the world. He'd definitely planned on going somewhere with that sentence. An attempt to string his desires together. But Steve beat him to it with a splayed palm on his abs and another on his chest, pulling him in with a constant pressure to reassure Bucky that there was no space between them.

 

Looping his free arm under Bucky’s, Steve cupped his hand over Bucky’s shoulder so that every time he thrust up there was nowhere for Bucky to go. An endless, blissful cycle of deep and deeper.

 

“Yeah, _yeah_ , Steve.” Bucky reached behind, lacing his fingers in blond hair, rolling up then down in one fluid motion.

 

With Steve pinning him to his chest, it was practically impossible for Bucky to get his teeth near the pale column of his throat, and for that he was almost grateful. _Almost_ , because although they’d now established that Steve’s death was the last thing he wanted, it didn’t stop him being overtaken by the primal, base urge to bite.

 

Steve’s palms started running along the tops of his thighs as he filled Bucky up again and again, fingers stretching out to feel as much as possible, scratching little white lines that blossomed with red, so hot that Bucky’s skin felt singed.

 

“I'm fucking crazy about you,” Steve was telling him in that awe-struck, gold plated voice, luring Bucky back from where he was caught up in his own head. “Every bit.”

 

Steve spoke the words like he was in confessional, which was priceless considering Bucky was the one that felt like he was handing over his sins, dropping his head back and tilting his chin so he could breathe them out into Steve’s kiss.

 

The kiss eventually spiraled out into nothing more than panted shared breaths and when it finally broke, Bucky’s eyes fell on the line of Steve’s throat, right there if Bucky was selfish enough to take it.

 

That was how he found himself, teeth gleaming white against the flush on Steve’s neck, skin burning and too tight. Inhaling Steve’s unique, sweet musk where it was strongest. It was only the rush, the building, building wave of his orgasm approaching, that tore his mouth from Steve’s neck before it was too late.

 

Pleasure flooded him, his stomach full of coiling, squirming fire. He knew that there was release waiting in the wings, in the taut bowstring of his muscles, ready to ambush him. He tipped his head forward, squeezing his eyes shut to hold it at bay a little longer.

 

Steve groaned when the pleasure caused Bucky to clamp down on his cock. “You wanted this,” he muttered, marveled almost. “You wanted this all along.”

 

Bucky hitched a breath. Sighed it out. Circled his hips in a tight grind. “Yes,” he gasped.

 

“As much as I did.”

 

“More.”

 

“Not possible,” Steve said, quickly palming over the head of Bucky’s cock, slipping in the slick of precome.

 

Bucky yelped, teeth gritted, knuckles white as Steve jerked him quickly and brushed his lips against Bucky’s ear to whisper, “I don't care what I am, or what you are. I don't care if what we are together is sick or forbidden or impossible. I was yours from the start,” he said, voice thicker. “And you were mine too.”

 

And just like that, Bucky came, the dirty kiss he was laying on Steve’s arm freezing as he moaned low. A sound like cracked heaven. He came so hard and for so long, it felt like it had been forcibly wrenched out of him. And he started to wonder if he'd come a second time.

 

Dragging in a gasping breath he didn’t need, Bucky crumpled forward in a boneless mess, pulling Steve down with him, who thrust a couple more times, hips thrown out of rhythm as he came with a muffled shout of Bucky’s name.

 

Bucky lay motionless, a dazed grin on his lips. His ears throbbed with Steve’s heavy pulse as it gradually started to wind down, and every time his body twitched with aftershocks Steve would press a new kiss to the smooth plane of his back.

 

Between each press of lips, there was nothing but a blank space where Bucky’s thoughts should be. The blissful white enabled words like _joy_ and _peace_ to creep in, pushing out everything but the feeling of rightness that cloaked his body in a suspiciously Steve-shaped blanket. It felt like the final, satisfying spin on a safe’s lock when all the right numbers were lined up, a complete sequence that unlocked vaults which had stayed bolted for decades.

 

“Don’t think,” Steve whispered into the v between Bucky’s head and the mattress. “Just… not right now. We'll think tomorrow.”

 

Bucky replied with a hum and rubbed a circle on Steve’s thigh.

 

His eyes were heavy when he heard Steve ask, “You ever get cold just before you fall asleep?”

 

Bucky twisted sleepily so that he could catch the profile of Steve's face. He studied it a minute to buy himself time before he had to lie or say, _I’m always cold_. But Steve wasn't cold because he was falling into sleep — he was cold because his mortal body was dying.

 

Bucky spared a fleeting thought for ceaseless blood wars, corrupt allegiances and impossibly tragic romances to shame Romeo and Juliet. They all flashed through his head, one after the other. All the things that were too big, too consuming, too precariously balanced in favor of tipping off a precipice you couldn't recover from.

 

Then he shut them all out, and toppled over the brink into sleep instead.

 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying the story, please kudos or comment. Thank you!


	10. X: Truth and Legend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and special thanks to those who have given kudos or comments so far!!
> 
> This is the penultimate chapter, and it's a long one! I was going to split it into two but figured I'd just go with it. So here's to angst and cute and plot development - enjoy!
> 
> The last chapter will be posted next week

**X: Truth and Legend**

 

_“Time is tricky. You have whole months, even years, when nothing changes... And then you can get hit with a day, or an hour, or a half a second when so much happens it’s almost like you got born all over again into some brand-new person you for damn sure never expected to meet.”_

― E.R. Frank, Life is Funny

 

~

 

Pulling himself away from Steve's body was one of the hardest things he'd had to do in this whole mess of a situation. If he could have stayed, burning in Steve’s heat until the war passed them by, then he would have done.

 

But as the room faded in and sleep faded out, his lungs were crushed under the force of reality. Passing out in Steve's arms hadn't changed the fact that there was a price on Steve’s head. Bucky wouldn't be the one to follow the kill order and would take down anyone who dared to give it, but it didn't matter because they were both going to end up dead or on opposite sides of an unending war. 

 

So Bucky peeled himself away. Away from Steve, and away from his best self, slipping into the bathroom with what he could find of his clothes.

 

The room was clean and too bright. It had Steve written all over it. Bucky looked down and wished he could say the same for his skin, which would inevitably force out every sign of Steve’s touch. For now at least, a floral chain of bruises started at the jut of each hip bone and trailed across the small of his back to meet in the middle. The proof that Steve wanted him.

 

Back in the main room, Steve wasn’t much better off. Vivid scratches shadowed the top of his spine, tattooed his thighs, healing fast but beautiful now.

 

He had to look away. He didn't want to tempt himself into sinking back into the mattress, slipping the cold sheet over the two of them and letting Steve burn the chill away. He didn't want to know what it felt like to wake up disoriented, feeling the brush of a foot and remembering. Feeling happy and knowing he could never have it again.

 

It wasn't like he’d never done this. Creeping out, that is. But he’d never felt like the air was being torn out of his lungs before. With every second he convinced himself it was the right thing to do, the elastic bands Steve had sown into his heart pulled taut.

 

Tucking his gun into his thigh holster, he tried to remember that there was no way they could ever make this work.

 

“Bucky, wait—”

 

Steve wasted seconds in stumbling silence. He obviously hadn’t expected Bucky to stop, and in all honesty, neither had Bucky. It was like their bodies were responding to each other, oblivious to the mess in Bucky’s head and heedless to the consequences. Bucky had stopped and Steve’s hand was inching across the mattress before quickly retreating a moment later as though he suspected Bucky didn’t want to take it.

 

As though there was anything else Bucky would rather touch.

 

Steve’s eyes were glassy. “What are you doing?”

 

_Something else, anything else._

 

_Something that isn't falling._

 

Bucky’s cold heart fractured a little more as he took the unspoken answer with him and closed the door.

 

_~_

 

The minute the door slam-clicked shut, he knew he'd made a mistake. Whole lungfuls of air punched out of him as he turned and sank back against the wood to stop himself from opening it straight back up again.

 

Sitting on the floor opposite him, Riley’s pale eyes were steady, his fingers fanning out a hand of playing cards. He looked completely unsurprised to suddenly have company in the cramped hallway. It made sense. He'd probably heard every single moment of Bucky’s cowardly exit.

 

Bucky sighed, tipping his head back. “You entertained?” he asked with little heat.

 

Riley cleared his throat. “Oh, no _—_ no, I… I left for that bit.”

 

Bucky took in the way Riley’s hands were fidgeting, head dipping to hide scarlet cheeks, and promptly coughed on his own embarrassment. Riley must have heard the sex too, and Bucky could well imagine the sounds that had pushed him into a quick getaway. After all, Bucky had contributed to most of them.

 

“That wasn't actually the bit I was talking about,” he said awkwardly. “I meant my walk of shame.”

 

Riley released the breath he'd been holding. “Oh right, okay, good.” He relaxed back, stretching his legs out in front of him and shuffled his cards.“Very short walk,” he observed lightly before asking, “Want to play?”

 

“I—umm. I was actually thinking…” Bucky thumbed at the door over his shoulder. “Do you think I should go back in now?”

 

He’d already started to reach for the door handle when Riley answered, “No, I absolutely don't.”

 

Bucky raised an eyebrow, startled at the unexpectedly firm tone. To be fair, Riley looked a little startled by it himself.

 

“Can I speak plainly?” Riley asked a few seconds later. He waited for Bucky’s nod then leant forward with his arms propped on his knees. “You bailed on him. The least you could do is give him some time to be furious and the space to work through it. And you need to get yourself straight before you go back in.”

 

Riley reached over, cards in hand and offered Bucky half the deck. His eyes were intent like he was entreating Bucky to listen and see sense.

 

The problem was, Bucky _was_ listening. And it forced him to squeeze his eyes shut against the sting threatening to spill. He absently wondered whether there was so much bitterness in his heart that its only means of escape was to spike his tears.

 

“Yeah, alright,” he sighed out when he opened his eyes again, sliding his back down the door until he was seated. He took the cards, pinched his own leg, and suggested, “Poker?”

 

Riley laughed. “What do you take me for? An idiot? Nah, we're playing something that involves luck and no talent for poker faces. What do you say to strip-jack-naked?”

 

“I say, never as fun as it sounds,” Bucky grumbled in answer, but he turned his hand over and put the top card in between them.

 

Minutes went by to the tune of cards _snick snicking_ together and the rustle when someone won the run and took the stack.

 

“Sam would disagree with my advice,” Riley stated casually, smiling victoriously as he swiped up a considerable number of Bucky’s cards.

 

The non sequitur made Bucky blink, but he didn't want to know what Sam disagreed about. He was too busy thinking about whether it would be better for Steve if he were to concede the game, leave the building entirely and sprint headlong into the sun. Without a doubt, he had it coming.

 

Bucky shook his head the tiniest bit. So Steve might have had a point about his tendency towards the dramatic, but he'd rather not think about Steve right now. Even if Steve was _all_ he could think about.

 

“I know I said you shouldn't go back in, but I don't think you should leave either,” Riley said mildly without taking his eyes from the stack. “That's where Sam would disagree.”

 

Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek, knowing full well he wouldn't actually leave. If he did, he'd only spend the best part of the rest of his existence trying to burn out the spark Steve had created. It might be kinder to let Steve hate him, but Bucky couldn't be sure he was selfless enough to let him. At least, not without a fight.

 

The effort it took to keep himself in place and not barge through the door made his muscles ache. This whole interlude felt pointless but he wouldn't let on, not while his tentative friendship with Riley was so raw.

 

He took a deep breath and watched Riley carefully over his cards, focusing intently on his face as though it would force the forgotten wrongs Bucky had done him back into Bucky’s head.

 

“Riley, what's your memory like?” he asked quietly.

 

“Same as all vampires,” Riley started with a small smile. “Inconveniently crystal clear.”

 

Bucky tensed but Riley’s smiling look told him that if there was a dig in there, it was about sex noises and nothing more. Perhaps Riley hadn't made his escape from the hallway as early on as he wished he had.

 

Bucky didn't joke back. This was too important. “Not all vampires,” Bucky ventured, running a nail along his bottom lip.

 

Riley’s face turned thoughtful. “Last night you said there are things you don't remember,” he remarked after a few moments. “I've never met a vampire who didn't have total recall.”

 

“What did I do, Riley?” Bucky asked, barely more than a whisper. “What did I do to you?”

 

“I only know what I was told,” Riley said steadily.  “They said you ordered a retreat. That there was time and a half for us to get out, and that you didn't wait.” Riley looked down and flicked the edge of a card. “Someone said that we were left as payment for your safe passage out of the IBM building.”

 

Bucky said nothing but had to swallow around the lump in his throat.

 

“I don't know whether I believe that,” Riley continued, looking up at him. “It didn't sound likely then and it's even less believable now.”

 

Bucky unclenched his jaw and tried to mirror Riley’s warm smile, but it tasted sour on his lips. His conscience was far from cleared. He'd need detail to work out if he was liable or not, but he couldn't bring himself to ask for more when it seemed Riley had already given him more than he probably deserved with that forgiving smile.

 

“How long do I have to wait?”

 

“At least an hour.”

 

“How long’s it been?”

 

Riley looked up at him. “Nine and a half minutes.”

 

Whatever pitiful expression Bucky had involuntarily pulled, it made Riley drop his cards with a slightly frustrated sigh. “God this is painful,” he muttered to himself, then looked up at Bucky with a remarkably patient look. “I think you should go back in now.”

 

His voice was pleasant despite the fact that Bucky was clearly grating on his every nerve.

 

But the grin he wore when Bucky jumped up at his words was entirely genuine.

 

~

 

“Steve…” he whispered across the dark.

 

“You’re back.”

 

Bucky winced.

 

Steve was on the mattress, exactly where Bucky had left him. The voice he spoke with was dull and sharp at once, unapologetically pitched to a normal conversation volume like he'd heard Bucky’s whisper but was too angry to join him in the intimacy of it.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky breathed back, sounding a little lost.

 

Under the cover of darkness, they both chose silence. It wasn't easy or comfortable. It was too cold, too forced, brittle and fragile like spun sugar and fine fluted crystal. But Bucky’s nerves felt soothed just by being there. Knowing that Steve was there too.

 

Bucky squinted across the room. If he let the blue in, his vampire eyes would pick up more than the shadowy hills and valleys of Steve’s silhouette, but it didn't seem right somehow. And he could remember every line of Steve’s face anyway, so he just stopped trying and waited.

 

The minutes went by quickly that way. Then Steve offered an olive branch.

 

“It's too hot over here,” he commented, voice neutral but stacked with meaning.

 

Something fluttered in Bucky’s chest. He knew exactly what Steve was saying, but his mind was in overdrive and he needed it spelling out. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve sighed out. “Any chance you could bring those cold hands over here?”

 

Bucky's smile was bursting onto his face as he crossed the room, hesitant at first but dizzy in his relief. He crawled under the sheet and curled against Steve’s back. As much as he wanted to feel the slide of Steve's skin, it didn't feel appropriate to take his jacket off.

 

“Pretty half-assed hit and run attempt if you only run for five minutes,” Steve evaluated unsympathetically. His body was still tight, still making Bucky pay, but the line of his back softened and when he reached back to take Bucky’s hand into the mini volcano of his own, the words didn't sound quite so harsh.

 

“Ten at least,” Bucky defended. Remembering each mortifying blush on Riley’s cheeks and every second he wanted to be pressed to Steve’s side, he said, “Felt like more though.”

 

Time caught in treacle is what it felt like.

 

“And it wasn't like that,” he rushed to add. His throat was raw and emotion cracked the words on their way out. “It wasn't just… hit and quit, you know? It was _—_ it wasn't like that for me.”

 

Bucky finished talking with a sharp breath. This conversation was a tactical battle that neither of them were really equipped to fight. If it was waged with guns and fists they'd be fine. Bucky knew he was making a mess of it. That he’d always been shit at communicating, but to be fair, this was probably the most communicative he'd been in years.

 

“Did you even make it round the block?” Steve asked, milder this time.

 

“I umm… didn't actually leave the building.”

 

Steve's gentle laughter shook them both, a deep rumble that vibrated from his back into Bucky’s chest, all easy like he couldn't stay mad with Bucky for long.

 

He squeezed Bucky’s hand a couple of times and said, “You don't have to wear clothes for my sake.”

 

Bucky slid his legs against Steve’s, sighed into his hair. “I can't stay long though,” he said, already hating himself for it. But one of them had to say it.

 

“Why? So you don't have to lie to me about how we can't be together?”

 

Bucky sighed into the curve of his neck. “I'm not going to say we can't be together,” he admitted. “But it's not technically a lie.”

 

“I believe that _you_ believe that.”

 

“You're a real asshole, you know that?”

 

Steve tightened his grip on Bucky’s arm as he jerked in annoyance, but he'd had no intention of pulling away anyway. In fact, he’d been so content to be a heavy, heat-leaching weight against Steve’s shoulder that he almost complained when Steve turned and eased him onto his back, but then Bucky was able to look at him, could see in his eyes that they were okay. God knew for how long, but for now they were okay.

 

“What I'm trying to say,” Steve explained calmly, “is that if you believe we can't be together then we won't be. You don't need a business case to end this. If you don't want… whatever it is we've got, then that's your right.”

 

“I do,” Bucky breathed out, because he wholeheartedly did. It was just that, in some fucked up mimicry of how the world was meant to be, they found themselves enemies. “But do _you_ want it? I mean, really? We barely know each other… we’re hardly more than strangers. Do you even recognize the world anymore, let alone me?”

 

Bucky steamed ahead, quicker than he'd wanted to because Steve seemed ready to argue. “Come on… I've been nothing but a complete dick to you and if we survive this, you won't be welcome by anyone else. Anywhere. My kind will always hunt you, lycans will view you as a traitor because of me, the human world will tempt you to feed and kill.”

 

Bucky took a moment, eyes softening as Steve’s face crumpled, but he had to make the point. Steve had to know.

 

“You'll only have me,” he said quietly, running the pad of his thumb gently over Steve’s jaw. “And I hurt people.”

 

“We all hurt people,” Steve said simply. “Look, I know it's not all going to be balmy summer picnics and matching couples’ tattoos _—_ ”

 

“Tattoos don't take on my skin,” Bucky interrupted, smiling at the dark.

 

Steve groaned. “That was getting romantic.”

 

Bucky snorted. “I can tell you now — it wasn't.”

 

“Take the jacket off Bucky,” came the amused reply.

 

Bucky peeled off layers until his chest was bare and he could pull Steve down to meet his skin, close enough that their lips almost brushed when Steve spoke. “I knew you hadn't gone far,” he grinned a little smugly against Bucky’s mouth. “I could smell you in the hallway.”

 

“Creepy.”

 

“And vampires aren't?” Steve laughed and rearranged a stray piece of Bucky’s hair where it was curling around his ear. “Why do you always smell so good to me?”

 

It was clearly a rhetorical question but the fact that there wasn't an answer changed things for Bucky. “I don't know. It shouldn't be that way. You shouldn't smell good to me either.”

 

When teeth trailed his neck, Bucky stiffened. “Hang on. What kind of good are we talking here? Good like you want to rip a chunk out of me?”

 

Steve tensed, face like Bucky had physically slapped him. “I don’t want to hurt you, Bucky. And I’m not going to let you get hurt.”

 

Bucky’s heart might be cold these days but it still cut to think that the only answer to that comment was that Steve might just have to.

 

He didn’t want to think about it though, so he baited Steve’s lips back with his own, slotting them together and relishing the slow slide and firm pressure for a few minutes before dragging his teeth over Steve’s bottom lip and letting the kiss break.

 

“You feel good to me too,” Steve said quietly, forming the words so that each one brushed Bucky’s lips and made his stomach flip. “Not _that_ ,” Steve clarified next because Bucky might have let slip a positively dirty groan, “well obviously that, but not just that. I mean when you fed from me. Is it always like that?”

 

Bucky pulled away an inch, hoping to reprogram his brain from bright lust to something that would make it easier to speak, or think, or exist.

 

“No, not always,” he answered. “It depends. I don't know how to describe it. I guess it's like, after you were bitten, you're still you but enhanced. When a vampire feeds, the relationship between the two people before dictates how they'll both feel about it.”

 

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Well that explanation was a little more clinical than I imagined.”

 

Bucky grinned back. “Well it is clinical most of the time. But, for you” he indicated first to Steve then to himself, “I guess it felt like how we are.”

 

Steve narrowed his eyes. “So you knew how I felt about you days ago?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky’s eyes glinted. “It was obvious.” He cursed and laughed when Steve pinched the meat of his ass. “I’m kidding. I didn’t really think too much about it. Don’t look at me like that. It’s been one hell of a fucking week.”

 

He traced a finger along the fading cut of Steve’s arm, remembering the softness against his lips, and quickly frowned.

 

“You're burning up,” he said, bringing his hand to Steve’s brow. “I thought the cold hands thing was your way of getting me over here.”

 

“It was,” Steve sighed contentedly. “That feels nice though. It's really hot in here.”

 

It wasn't, but Bucky ran his cool fingers over Steve's forehead anyway. “You'll be okay. It's just that lycans run real hot.”

 

Steve slowly opened his eyes and peered at him meaningfully. “You almost said that without retching.”

 

For a full ten seconds, Bucky didn't know what to say. Steve was smiling softly to show he was playfully provoking, but the point he was making was serious enough and Bucky wanted to prove himself better than all the hatred he carried. Hatred that he was learning wasn't actually his own.

 

“Well you're kind of owning the whole lycan thing. It's quite inconvenient really.”

 

Steve kept his lips nearby as he replied. “So, I'm not the bad guy anymore?”

 

“No. I'm pretty sure I'm the bad guy,” Bucky joked, but it wasn't really a joke when it was true.

 

Steve shook his head, adamant. “Well you're not.”

 

“All the horror stories say so. And that includes the bible.”

 

Steve looked at him blankly.

 

“ _God made the sun to rise on the evil and on the good’,_ " he quoted. "As you know, I sunbathe as much as it looks like I do. Vampires are the bad guys that even the forgiveness of god won’t stretch to.”

 

To keep Steve from arguing, he reached in and stole a kiss, though he figured it wasn't technically stealing if Steve’s kisses were already his, then he pulled back and bit his lip to keep from saying something even more maudlin.

 

Steve frowned a little. “I can’t believe I’m saying this," he said anyway, using his thumb to draw Bucky’s lip from between his teeth, "but don't. You’ll cut it open.”

 

Bucky laughed. “Yeah, it’ll be agony for all of thirty seconds while it heals.”

 

“Not the point,” Steve practically clucked.

 

“Steve,” he murmured, liking how it sounded in the tiny, barely-there space between them and not wanting it to stop. “Have you been letting the cat sleep on the bed?”

 

“I like having him around. Was I not supposed to?”

 

“I'm allergic.”

 

“That makes no sense whatsoever. Thought you were only allergic to sunlight and wood.”

 

“I am not allergic to wood.”

 

Steve sniggered and ran the tip of his nose over the flawless slope of skin where the sun’s burn had grazed Bucky’s cheek.

 

“Wood isn't fatal to us. It's a catalyst. I could explain the science if you want.”

 

“What a nerd.”

 

“So Clint says.”

 

“Yeah, well you are. I like it. Now turn over.” Steve switched spoons so that Bucky found himself pulled back against a cushion of warm skin and hard muscle.

 

“Just because you're bigger now,” Bucky pretended to grumble, tucking his body into Steve.

 

“Because I’ve always been the big spoon,” Steve amended before propping himself up on an elbow and looking around. “Where's Remy?”

 

“Based on this conversation, I'd guess that your unhealthy dependence on him has probably frightened him away.” Bucky smiled innocently in the face of Steve’s disdainful grunt. “Just a stab in the dark.”

 

“He always seems unhappy.”

 

Bucky pursed his lips on a grin. “Pretty sure that’s just his god-given grumpy face, but I'll have words with him if he's bullying you.”

 

Steve ignored the sass and sank back down to the mattress with a speculative look on his face. “How does a purebreed end up on the streets in the first place?” he asked, chin resting on Bucky’s bed fluffed hair.

 

“Too expensive to keep? Pedigrees end up with all sorts of health problems that mongrels don’t, and veterinary surgeons cost money.”

 

As though indignant about his so-called high maintenance, Remy made his appearance, jumping on Steve’s stomach and knocking the air out of him, only to follow up with an unapologetic mewl.

 

“How expensive could he be? He’s just a cat,” Steve insisted.

 

When a glance showed Remy all but beguiling Steve into scratching him behind the ears, Bucky somehow doubted that very much. “‘Just a cat’,” Bucky mocked.

 

Ignoring him, Steve bopped Remy on the nose which went down about as well as Bucky thought it would. “I hate that society has made _mongrel_ into such a nasty word,” Steve said thoughtfully. “ _Hybrid_ is better.”

 

“And there was me thinking we had real issues,” Bucky deadpanned before freezing in place. The laugh slid off his face before it had really started. “Oh _shit_.”

 

“What?” Steve asked as he relaxed the circle of his arms to let Bucky throw himself off the mattress.

 

“I think I might know why Romanoff wants you so bad,” Bucky answered, keeping the waver from his voice as he grabbed up his cell from the windowsill. “Riley, get Sam back here ASAP," he commanded in the direction of the door.

 

Bucky’s mind span, waiting for his phone to start up and hearing the affirmative sound of a boot on the door a split second later.

 

“What is it Bucky?” Steve said, already up and pulling a shirt over his head. “What does she want?”

 

Bucky’s cell lit up with twenty six missed calls from Clint, but he dialed Wanda first.

 

“I can't be sure,” Bucky said meeting Steve’s eyes. “I need to check something firs—”

 

He cut himself off when the line clicked open.

 

“Hi Adur,” Wanda trilled in a strange voice. “Can't really talk right now. I'll text you about that party later, alright?”

 

Bucky bit his lip because Wanda being overheard would make this so much harder. “Corvinus blood,” he started without waiting a beat, knowing they didn't have much time. “From what you read, is there any chance it could make a lycan immune to vampire venom?”

 

Wanda took a breath. “Yes,” she said quietly, barely audible above the voices in the background.

 

Bucky nodded and avoided Steve's gaze. He couldn't look at him and think about this at the same time. “Could it alter the way the subject’s body handles both lycan and vampire venom so that instead of forcing the poisons to fight and destroy each other, it adapts to both?”

 

Steve tensed.

 

The voices on Wanda’s end of the line grew louder and Bucky could make out Rumlow’s low grunt of, “Maximoff.”

 

Bucky’s body seized with urgency that he tried to sigh out before very quietly asking, “Could a descendant of Corvinus have the capacity to become a hybrid?”

 

There was a long staticy silence on the line.

 

“I have to go,” Wanda said airily, “but there’s no need to ask, my answer will always be yes. I'll bring gin.”

 

“ _Shit_.” Bucky didn't realize he'd been pacing until he found himself by the counter, crushing the metal in his hand. He opened his fingers slowly and raised his eyes to where Steve was watching him a meter away. “Be careful, Wanda,” Bucky said before hanging up. He had a bad feeling about Rumlow’s tone.

 

“Hybrid?” Steve said in his usual low timbre, as casual as if Bucky had told him the time.

 

Bucky looked at him incredulously. Jesus, did nothing ever frighten this man? Yes, Steve's nonchalance was very impressive, but all Bucky felt was an overwhelming urge to shake some fear into him.

 

“This is bad,” he heard himself say in a hollow tone he'd almost forgotten he had in his arsenal.

 

“It's not bad,” Steve started, only to be cut off by the squealing rip of metal under Bucky’s fingertips.

 

“Do not try and tell me all the ways in which this is a good thing. It's not!” All the frustration he'd felt on the subway when Steve refused to move, every protective instinct that had grown since then, borne from the fact that he pretty much fucking loved this man, manifested itself into anger. “You should be scared, Steve!”

 

“Would it help?”

 

Bucky hit speed dial for Clint. If he didn't, he'd throw the cell against the wall, and possibly Steve with it. “You could at least pretend to care about what's going to happen to you because I do."

 

Bucky fell silent in the wake of his own outburst, hurting so much his eyes flashed blue.

 

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter but no less forceful. “Start fucking caring whether you live or die.”

 

“I do care,” Steve replied vehemently, locking eyes with Bucky. “I care about what happens to us. Especially now the stakes are higher. I _care_. But would it really help if I showed it right now?”

 

Bucky opened his mouth with no clue what to say. A second ago he’d been baring pointed teeth and tearing his hand through thick steel, and yet Steve was still looking at him like he was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. And quite possibly the most important.

 

Bucky’s breath was loud, Steve’s heart louder, and it was all he could hear until Clint picked up.

 

“Fucking finally,” came the forced whisper down the line. “Rumlow knows where you are.”

 

Bucky whipped his eyes up and his gun into his palm. A fraction of a second later, Sam burst through the door.

 

“Rumlow has a lock on your location. You need to go,” Sam said quickly, gun in hand and Riley at his back. “Now.”

 

“It’s too late,” Steve said. “They’re here.”

 

Bucky’s eyes snapped to where Steve stood, rigid and alert like he could sense something that the rest of them couldn't, which only meant one thing. Lycans.

 

“Rumlow’s not the only one,” Bucky said into the phone.

 

Sure enough, Bucky heard them a second later, scented them the next. Then the lycans were breaking through the main building door, and Riley, who'd grabbed a bag of ammo and an armful of guns from the safe, was following Sam onto the stairwell to form a first line of defense.

 

“Come on, we’re getting out of here,” Bucky told Steve, moving quickly to the window, where both of them looked out and down into the dark.

 

Bucky hadn't even realized that the night had moved in, but it was pitch black, streetlights zinging off everything they could, making it even easier to see the approach of an unmarked white van. They cursed in unison as lycans spilled out the back.

 

“Not that way we’re not,” Steve breathed after he’d yanked Bucky back from the window just before bullets punched in the glass. Steve took one look at the nick on Bucky’s temple from a stray shard and grabbed one of Bucky's glocks.

 

What Steve knew about guns was only what he'd learnt by watching Bucky systematically check every weapon in the safe house for ammo and wear, but he seemed to be managing just fine.

 

Bucky joined him in picking off the lycans as they launched themselves up the wall until there were only a couple left that cowered behind the van’s high sides, lying in wait.

 

There wasn’t time to dwell on the small victory because Sam was calling for backup. Keeping Steve behind him, Bucky spotted a gap in Sam and Riley’s line and slotted himself and his rifle in place.

 

Despite the seemingly endless stream of lycans forcing their way up the stairwell, they were holding the group at bay. Yes, Bucky found himself nicked by a claw and grazed by the ricochet of a lucky bullet, but the pain was drowned in the adrenalin rush and it was nothing he hadn’t dealt with before.

 

His team were nowhere close to overwhelmed.

 

But when Bucky turned to check on Steve, eyes scoping the floor and ceiling to weigh up the next best escape route, there was a fire in Steve’s eye that made Bucky stop cold.

 

His hand was braced on the top of the window casing and his foot against the bottom bracket, and Bucky could read his intentions like they were luminous and branded onto his forehead.

 

“Don't you dare,” Bucky snapped, starting towards him.

 

“They'll leave if they have me,” Steve was saying as though there was no point in arguing.

 

And maybe there wasn't. Bucky already knew that Steve was doubly reckless and equally as stubborn when he had something to protect.

 

Later he'd realize that he’d stalled too long, relishing the selfish butterfly-bright spark in his chest that thought: this time... this time _he_ was the one Steve wanted to protect.

 

By the time Bucky snapped to, Steve’s grip on the window frame was tighter. “We don't need them to leave. We've got the upper hand,” he shouted back, pausing to open fire on a hostile that had found its way past Sam’s gun as though trying to prove Bucky a liar. Somewhere, some higher power was raising an eyebrow. _You were saying?_

 

Steve might have been thinking the same thing, but that was probably because he had a sense for their enemy like nobody else. “There are more coming,” he said, looking out at the sidewalk below. To Bucky the action looked very much like spotting a landing.

 

“Don't you fucking dare jump out that window!”

 

It was like Bucky's emotions were condensing down into that one moment. He didn't realize that he knew how to love and hate someone so much all at once.

 

Riley and Sam were retreating back into the apartment, piling countless bullets into the wall of lycans. Bucky knew he needed to get on the attack. It meant turning his back on Steve, but he did it.

 

Lycans swarmed the room and then just as abruptly, stopped. The one at the end of Bucky's barrel sniffed and suddenly pivoted as if to retreat. Whatever its motive, it got a bullet to the back of the head for its efforts.

 

Then the rest of them were following suit, and Bucky, Sam and Riley were left watching in amazement as they all started to flee.

 

“What the hell?” Riley gasped. “Lycans don't do that. Why are they doing that?”

 

He was asking as if he wouldn't be answered, as if there was no rational explanation, but Bucky knew there was. Lungs crashing, he turned to the window to find Steve gone.

 

He’d been right about so many things, but if he thought the claws in his stomach would ease when he no longer had to listen to the familiar heartbeat as it was driven further and further away from him, he was wrong.

 

The imaginary flatline his brain supplied in its place was far, far worse.

 

~

 

“And then what happened?”

 

“He jumped of course.”

 

“Of course,” echoed Clint flatly.

 

Bucky wished he could laugh at Clint’s face, the mixture of one part despair to two parts approval, but it was hard enough to force a hollow smile. He couldn't see his reflection in the scratched up formica tabletop, but he'd be willing to bet that the attempt was pretty harrowing.

 

In confirmation, Clint looked at him worriedly and Bucky shifted restlessly, his chair scraping the diner floor with a squeal.

 

“He knew they’d leave if he handed himself over,” Bucky muttered. “It's that insufferable hero complex of his.”

 

He was scowling as he said it because he sort of wanted to hate Steve for throwing himself out of a window, and because he didn’t actually need a hero so he really shouldn't be thinking about Steve with an emotion akin to worship.

 

He could scowl all he liked, but they were where they were, and Clint knew all this, which was why he was currently giving Bucky an unforgiving stare. “You seem to suffer it just fine.”

 

Bucky ignored him in favor of saying, “I don’t know if the why even matters. Who knows what he was thinking, or what it means.”

 

“It means he's in love with you and that he’s almost definitely an idiot,” Clint advised without pause. “A hopeless case. Bit like you.”

 

An hour ago Clint had pulled up outside the safe house, bow in hand and T’Challa in the passenger seat. It had only been four minutes since his call with Bucky, but the fight was already done and Bucky was standing in the middle of an empty street, staring out at a bare stretch of tarmac.

 

“I'm not letting him go,” Bucky had said, voice steady. The only sign that he was feeling anything was that his eyes were struck blue with anger and loss and everything in between. “We need to find him.”

 

“We need sugar,” Clint had corrected, a hand on Bucky’s elbow to steer him out of the way of an oncoming car. “And there are things you need to know before we do anything. Let's go.”

 

So Bucky had let himself be led to the car, feeling disconnected, brain hammering to the rhythm of its own drum.

 

“He’s fine,” Clint had told T’Challa’s questioning expression as he took the wheel. “Just shock. Probably.” But Bucky knew he’d meant _hopefully_.

 

Now they were in an all night diner and Bucky had been back to firing on all cylinders for forty minutes. It had been Clint, pale faced and worried, that had pulled Bucky back to himself. If he'd had the choice though, he wouldn't have come back to a stubbornly loud whirlpool crashing around the inside of his head and a depressingly grimy diner.

 

All the other booths and tables were empty, tinged yellow by too-bright strip lights. The floor was grimy, the table waxed with a sheen of something unpleasantly sticky.

 

The whole place was a bit beige and neglected, which seemed to Bucky perfectly, metaphorically, on point.

 

He dug a nail into the table. It was already scratched to shit, like someone else had been in this exact same spot, plotting revenge.

 

“Stop that,” T’Challa instructed from somewhere behind a rumpled newspaper. The luminous orange Donald Trump looking at Bucky from the front page didn't endear Bucky to stop.

 

“Look Bucky,” Clint said with a serious expression. “It's been an hour, which means you probably had your plan of attack ironed out fifty four minutes ago, and I know you're crawling the walls having to wait but I need to get you up to speed on some things.”

 

Clint wasn't wrong. Bucky had wanted to storm the subway the moment he'd snapped back, to scour the subterranean tunnels until he could hear Steve's heartbeat in his ears again. But Clint was also right that he needed to go into the fight armed with all the information he could get.

 

“And we need to wait for Wanda,” Clint added. It was the same thing he'd been saying for the past hour. Clint answered Bucky’s groan with a smirk. “Believe me. You'll definitely want to see what she brings to the table.”

 

With a nod Bucky pulled his nail away from the enamel, dried blood on his hands and in his fingerprints. T’Challa put the newspaper down and it felt like some unspoken accord.

 

“The mansion’s on lockdown. The death dealers in holding cells. Security level’s been raised to critical,” T’Challa reported in that way of his that made even the most clinical of debriefs sound poetic.

 

“They’re monitoring every single communication we make,” said Clint. “And every move of everyone we’ve ever met. Even those we may have casually flipped off on the street.”

 

Bucky looked between them. “Mixed bag then,” he said sarcastically.

 

“The big news is that I remembered why I recognized Sharon’s name,” Clint offered. “She was Carter's niece.”

 

Bucky looked at him in surprise. “As in Peggy Carter? The elder?”

 

Clint nodded. “Sharon was tried, but nobody knew what for.”

 

“It was a closed court,” T’Challa put in.

 

“All anyone knew was that she was found guilty and sentenced to death. The actual sentence… well Steve was definitely right.”

 

Bucky frowned. “Tried and sentenced under whose reign?”

 

“Pierce’s,” T’Challa answered when Clint looked uncomfortable.

 

Bucky just held his breath and tried hard not to think about how Peirce was starting to sound like someone he’d never met.

 

“He's called everyone in to look for you,” Clint said quietly. “Including yours truly.”

 

“Well, you've pledged allegiance elsewhere,” Bucky replied flippantly in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Hope you brought your lucky bow with you.”

 

“That was unnecessary.” Clint hid his smile with an obnoxiously fake gasp of hurt. “I told you I lost it. Why’d you have to bring that up?”

 

Bucky felt the tension in his jaw ease slightly, a genuine smile lifting his lips. Somehow the lightness made it easier to speak about the darkness.

 

“Romanoff is going to experiment on Steve,” he said calmly despite the fact it made his insides feel like they were curling in on themselves. “If he survives, she'll try and make him a hybrid. I'm hitting the subway again. I'll find the den and get Steve out. Ignore all the bullshit I just said about allegiances… I don't blame you if you want nothing to do with it.”

 

Clint held his gaze easily. “I’m good. You don't frighten me off that easily.”

 

Bucky breathed out around the swell in his throat, flicked the corner of a laminated menu for lack of knowing quite how to deal with the gratitude that overtook him. He didn't have time to deal with it in any other way as it happened, because at that moment Sam and Riley walked through the door.

 

The girl behind the counter barely lifted her gaze. ‘Anne’, as her name tag proclaimed her to be, had earned her paycheck three times over already, having taken the earlier invasion of a bunch of guys covered in blood and leather in her stride.

 

Eying Sam and Riley with a long look and a slow chew of gum, Anne reached for the coffee jug and poured two huge mugs without a word. Perhaps she was just grateful for the company, even if ‘company’ looked like trouble. Or perhaps trouble was the real lure — the perfect distraction from greasy tile and flaking paintwork.

 

Sam accepted the mug with an unnecessarily charming smile. Anne shrugged that off too, and Bucky couldn't stop a smile from forming. It wavered only a little when Sam handed over the hoodie he'd left strewn on the safe house floor.

 

Raising an eyebrow, Sam asked, “Why do I get the feeling that place was wrecked even before the lycans showed up?”

 

Bucky slid his eyes upwards, flicking over Riley who’d gone red and leveling Sam with a long look. In any other situation he might try and save his dignity with a pasted on smirk or a cutting comment about how if Sam was taking the time to fold clothes as Riley took them off, then he was doing it all wrong.

 

Right now though, he was too hollow, too strung out. Too far away from Steve. And he just snapped. “Sam seriously, can you just give it a rest?”

 

The corners of Sam’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “Would it make your life easier?”

 

Bucky gave him a look. “Obviously.”

 

“There you go then,” Sam responded blandly, pulling up a chair. “You have your answer.”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes.

 

“We’re on the same side,” Riley reminded his boyfriend, leaning closer into his side. “Bucky’s just thinking that this would be easier if you were friends.”

 

“That's _not_ what I was thinking,” Bucky denied tiredly. “I just…” _Need to get Steve_. “Need to get moving.” _Moving to get Steve._

 

Bucky scanned the faces around him. He'd fallen for Steve, headfirst and foolish. There didn't seem much point in holding back now.

 

“Steve’s special. He might be the only single living descendant of Corvinus and if Romanoff succeeds in making him a hybrid then he'll be more powerful than any lycan or vampire. He's important to our world.” He took a breath. “But not as important as he is to me. I'm not just gonna give up on him.”

 

Bucky shielded himself behind his mug, but it was for nothing. Not a single pair of eyes was on him and nobody was saying a word. Granted Bucky’s little speech hadn't been a love-declaring, tissue-wringing outpouring of sentiment, but considering it was Bucky, it may as well have been. He was slightly affronted that the only response was a line of bowed heads. For a group of powerful supernaturals, they were all phenomenally shit with emotions.

 

Across the room, the pop of gum had ceased. When Bucky looked up at the counter, Anne didn't look away. She clearly knew nothing of what was going on, but she was apparently the only one that felt comfortable meeting Bucky's eyes. Just Anne, and... T’Challa, apparently. But he wasn't giving much of a reaction away either.

 

When Sam deigned to look up, his eyes were less guarded and he tilted his head a little with approval. Bucky blinked back in surprise.

 

“Did I miss something?” Wanda’s voice settled on the group, pulling Bucky away from what he thought might be the verge of an unexpected truce.

 

But everyone's attention was not on Wanda as she curled into the booth. It was on the red-eyed vampire that had sulked into the diner behind her.

 

“It’s like the Marie Celeste back there,” Wanda said as though nothing was amiss.

 

“Rumlow?” Riley frowned, mouth slightly agape as he stared at the figure hovering over Wanda’s shoulder. “Is he… alright?”

 

“He'll live.”

 

“I wasn't actually worried,” Riley said, looking Rumlow up and down.

 

“Give him a minute and he'll be ready to question,” Wanda told Bucky. “I had to go deep.”

 

Bucky flexed his hands, delighted to see Rumlow marched right up to him. He shifted impatiently in his seat when he thought of all the things Brock must know, all the things that would ease Bucky’s way back to Steve. The wait for him to come around was going to be unbearable.

 

“Man am I glad you're on our side,” Clint nudged Wanda.

 

“Peter’s on our side too,” she said. “I just spoke to him. Thought he might get whiplash from how quickly he said ‘I'm in.’ He's been bouncing off the walls since he helped Bucky that day Steve broke open the dog kennel.”

 

“Help how?” Sam asked.

 

“Bucky had him covering Steve by cycling empty surveillance footage through the security feed.”

 

“Aah, classic,” Clint grinned, looking to Bucky. “From the movie Speed, right?”

 

“From my own tactical genius, thanks very much.”

 

“From Speed,” Clint repeated in conclusion.

 

“What's Speed?” T’Challa asked, and it was hard to tell whether he actually cared or whether he absolutely didn't.

 

“Dude.” Clint’s face scrunched up. “If we're not dead when this is all over, we'll watch it.”

 

All Bucky could remember of the film was a bus and a train, some judiciously spread grease on Keanu Reeves’ bicep, and some arguably dubious acting. Now he also remembered the ending and an oddly disconcerting line of dialogue.

 

_Relationships based on intense experiences never last._

 

Bucky hunkered down ever so slightly in his seat.

 

He watched Rumlow like a hawk out of the corner of his eye as he played with the cheap condiments and wondered what Steve would say about him tipping sachet after sachet of demerara into his mug.

 

Meanwhile Wanda and Clint were talking in hushed voices, taking turns to fill the other in on everything they knew. With one to the left of Bucky, and one to the right, he felt his borders sure up. And just in time, because Bucky needed to be on form now that Rumlow was shaking the last of Wanda’s control from his head.

 

Eyes back to brown, then quickly snapping to blue, Rumlow caught sight of Bucky and tensed. He only made it a running stride to the door before a metal hand clamped down on his forearm and jerked him back.

 

“This is gonna get ugly,” Sam noted.

 

Bucky looked at Anne, who was now a little wide eyed as she inched her hand toward her phone, and Bucky couldn't blame her. He turned to Wanda, “Can you keep her happy? Sam, I need you to watch the front door. Riley, the back exit.”

 

Clearly a little nervous about breaking the tight circle they'd made around Rumlow, Sam’s lips twisted like he tasted bitter lemon. He nodded shortly but found time to contort his face into an expression that Bucky took to mean, _I’ll_ _say ‘I told you so’ now and get it over with, shall I?_

 

Sam might have had a point, but as Bucky turned back to Rumlow and found the sight of him enough to make anger burn the back of his throat, he had a feeling that he didn't want too many people around for this.

 

He was turning to T'Challa with some other pointless job, when the vampire said, “I’m staying. I want to hear this for myself.”

 

Bucky wasn’t surprised. He’d got the impression that T’Challa was still weighing up whether he wanted to be part of this or not.

 

Bucky turned back to Rumlow. “You found us at the safe house, and ten minutes later the lycans were on our doorstep. Care to offer an explanation that isn't about you telling Romanoff our location?”

 

“Romanoff is dead.”

 

Bucky scoffed, disdainful. “Cut it out.”

 

Rumlow barked a gravelly laugh so Bucky backed him into the counter with a hand around his neck and forced his spine into a cruel arch.

 

Behind Rumlow’s head, Anne flicked through a John Grisham with cherry red eyes.

 

“What does it matter who told her?” Rumlow spat. “Your boy's long gone.”

 

Bucky sent a look to Wanda and Rumlow was jackknifing at the waist, hands leaping up to grab at his head.

 

“It matters,” Bucky answered calmly.

 

Rumlow’s yell of agony jumped in pitch, but Wanda relented not an inch. This would be the easiest interrogation Bucky had ever been part of.

 

“It matters because rumor has it you have an alliance with Romanoff and I'll take an explanation for that one too while we're at it.”

 

Rumlow attempted a shrug. “We have a mole,” he ground out though his voice box was probably near crushed.

 

Bucky eased his grip and pulled Rumlow upright. “Moles leak information.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“It's just interesting that you used the word mole and not _liar._ ” Rumlow stilled and Bucky held back a laugh. “What is this, amateur hour?”

 

Rumlow narrowed his eyes. “Don't get cute with me Barnes,” he managed before cutting off with another scream.

 

“See, Wanda likes it when I'm cute. Now start talking.”

 

Rumlow shoved Bucky’s hand away. “We tracked you,” he admitted, sagging back against the counter and bringing a hand to his injured neck with a glare. “I knew we'd get there quicker than the lycans, but I also knew that the lycans would have no issue killing you. Pierce is pissed but he'd never be pissed enough to kill you. So it had to be Romanoff. I let her live all those years ago as an investment in the future of our kind. And this was the time for payback.”

 

“Let her live?” Clint scoffed. “The time you told the world you'd killed her and talked yourself up as a hero? I’d bet money _she_ let _you_ live.”

 

“Yeah, she did,” Rumlow snapped, “But then I called off the thirty gunmen with sniper rifles locked on her, so I think I can fairly say I let her live, don't you?”

 

Clint’s disbelieving laugh had him spluttering on a gulp of coffee. “Yeah, you’re a real warrior for the ages.”

 

“So you called off the snipers,” Bucky started, commending himself for not smiling when he heard Clint’s sarcastic mutter of, ‘So brave,’ “and kept her in your debt. It also meant that she had the freedom to build a secret army that could take us all down. You talk about ‘our kind’ as though keeping her alive was the right thing to do, but you did it for yourself.”

 

“There's no right or wrong… just protecting your own interests. If I hadn't bartered for her protection, do you think Pierce wouldn't have had me killed by now? He hates me. I made one wrong move against you way back when and that was it.”

 

Rumlow could have been referring to any number of slights. Bucky rolled his eyes. “Cry me a fucking river.”

 

Meanwhile, Clint was leaning forward in his seat. “Tell us about Natasha and Sharon.”

 

“Oldest love story in the book,” Rumlow answered flippantly. Not a second later, he was shooting a nervous glance at Wanda as though he was expecting backlash. She raised an eyebrow but lowered her hands when Bucky spoke.

 

“Except it's not in any book. It's been carefully redacted from history.”

 

“If Pierce wants something hidden then it disappears like it never fucking existed. And he definitely wanted this hidden. The thing he hates most, integration of the two species, right in front of his eyes. Hate drove him, but not for the reason you'd think.”

 

“Not because he was scared then?”

 

Rumlow’s jaw slackened a little, eyes narrowing. “Well, yeah. Thought you as his little pet would have bought all his ‘genetic repulsion’ bullshit.” He paused with a huff of rough laughter. “But then you've been living and breathing a lycan for the past two weeks.”

 

“Don't talk about Steve,” Bucky said through gritted teeth.

 

“Steve?” Rumlow repeated, eyes gleaming like he'd caught Bucky out and was both delighted and furious. “He’s _Steve_ now?”

 

“Only since birth, I'd guess.”

 

Rumlow snorted. “That scrawny little shit—”

 

“Watch your mouth,” Wanda warned in a low voice.

 

Narrowing his eyes, Rumlow said, “Romanoff wants revenge against Pierce, and with… _Steve_ she could have it. Even if the transformation fails, she’ll still have all the UV ammunition she needs. And fighters too.”

 

“The subway?” Bucky breathed, knowing that he’d been right about the den all along and annoyed that it had come to this.

 

Rumlow was obviously thinking back on their altercation in the control room too, because he grinned and said, “If all you wanted was for me to say that you were right then we could have saved me this fucking headache.”

 

“Your pain isn't something I'd ever want to save us from,” Bucky snipped back, taking the order pad and pen from the counter. He thrust them into Rumlow’s hands. “A map of the den. Now. Before I snap every single one of your ribs.”

 

Rumlow scowled at the paper, then suddenly hissed, hands snapping up to cradle his skull. “Jesus fuck, alright!”

 

Wanda flickered all the red sparks out of the air.

 

For a few seconds there was just the scritch of pen on paper, then Wanda drew a breath. “Why did Bucky forget the IBM mission?”

 

Bucky’s eyes shot up. “Wanda,” he said lowly, an odd panic flickering around his chest like clawed butterflies. “This isn't important right now.”

 

Rumlow appeared to disagree. The cruel smile that jumped to his face made the fierce wings inside Bucky beat quicker. “He didn't forget. We made it so he couldn't remember.”

 

Bucky stared. “What?”

 

“You heard,” Rumlow replied, pulling himself to standing like it was taking all the strength he had and some he didn't. “Your inhibitors are cut with a memory blocker.”

 

“Memory blocker,” Bucky repeated just to buy time while his brain scrambled for an explanation. He'd always thought his memories had eroded away, not vanished. And certainly not stolen. But every death dealer took hunger inhibitors. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to tamper with Bucky’s. “Why?”

 

Shrugging like it was nothing, Rumlow scrawled a few more lines on the paper and seemed to relish the ominously loud scratch.

 

“All information is managed,” he said. “So were you. The blockers confused your brain. Made it so it couldn’t file the information away properly. Then we’d pull you aside and help you remember a better version of events.”

 

Bucky was struck by the shimmering, stuttering memories of the IBM mission, the night his family were attacked by the lycans, and all the other missions in between that were hazy and refused to come into focus.

 

“The IBM mission was one of many,” Rumlow was saying.

 

“Riley was told I took a bribe for their lives. That I left them to die.”

 

“We told those soldiers a lot. If that's all Riley said they were told about you, then you don't know the half of it. But barely a word of it was true. It's testament to how effective the program is that you'd actually believe you would have done something like that.”

 

There was a sigh of relief on Bucky lips, a quiet _knock_ of a boot on the back door that told him Riley had heard too. He wanted to laugh for how relieved he was, but he'd been played and while the weight of it crushed down on him, he couldn't help the uncomfortable thought that there was still more.

 

“Then why tell them I did?”

 

“It was a cover. And every time we wiped you and told you a new story to take its place, you got better. More reliable. More efficient. No dissent, no distractions. The perfect soldier.”

 

The words sunk in slowly, sluggishly, until Bucky’s breath caught and then came in uneven gasps. He had no documentation, no identity outside of playing his role in the coven. He’d been puppeted and used, brought to heel so that Pierce could dictate a different, more palatable history in order to secure a new, more manageable present.

 

There were so many secrets, so many re-imagined memories, Bucky was hardly sure that the world wasn’t actually flat. “I would have known,” he barely whispered.

 

“What is this,” Rumlow taunted, “amateur hour?”

 

Wanda was too shocked to do anything about it.

 

Bucky snapped, jerking forward to rediscover the fading bruises on Rumlow’s throat. This time with his metal hand. “Who did it?”

 

“Banner cut the pills,” Rumlow wheezed. “Don't look like that — it's not like he wanted to. He'd do anything for family.”

 

For some reason, Bucky found himself letting go, stepping back, brow pinched. It might have been mention of Banner, who he'd only met once but knew to be a good man, but it wasn't. Bucky had always lost his head when he heard the word _family._

 

“You haven't had the pills for days have you? Just wait… you'll remember more and more. Right back. All the way back to the seconds after Pierce turned you.”

 

“We don't have time for this,” Bucky snapped, skin prickling. “Draw the map.”

 

Rumlow looked up at Bucky, his words purposeful, deliberate. “You'll remember that you refused to go back into the house, even to salvage some memory of your family.”

 

Clint and Wanda watched Rumlow carefully, uneasily, but neither of them felt the words as though each one was making ugly scars deep under their perfect skin, notches on their bones.

 

Bucky did.

 

“Wanda stop him.”

 

“The way you could move cars, flip them on their roof and not break a sweat. See five times further than you should. Smell better… and how you stood in that stable where you grew up, where your parents had just been butchered, but you couldn't smell a lycan for miles.”

 

Bucky’s eyes stuttered back to Rumlow’s face. “Because Pierce had run the lycans off.”

 

“Because,” Rumlow disagreed, “they were never even there.”

 

It felt like the floor was cracked under Bucky’s boots but he couldn't face looking down. “Who told Banner to lace my meds?” It wasn't the right question, but it was the one he could stand to ask.

 

Wanda put a gentle hand to his shoulder, looking intently at the side of his face as if urging him not to avoid the questions that needed to be asked.

 

Bucky shuddered at the thought of how easily she could reach into his mind and steer him back. “Don't,” he whispered, tilting his head towards her but not making eye contact.

 

Wanda’s hand reflexively tightened. “I wouldn't,” she whispered back. “Never. But you should ask. You need to know.”

 

Bucky ignored the fact that she was right, would ignore it as long as he could. “Who gave Banner the order?”

 

He watched Rumlow’s eye twitch. It told a story. Maybe not all the story, but enough.

 

Still, he had to be sure. “Answer me!”

 

“Pierce,” Rumlow answered. “You were meant to be his legacy, but you turned out to have a mind of your own. He made you a vampire because he saw strength in you and he liked that. After a while, he started to think that you might pose a threat to him. And _that_ , he didn't like.”

 

“You're lying."

 

“Alexander Pierce isn't all you think he is. I was there when he gave Banner the order to lace your meds,” Rumlow’s eyes gleamed. Bucky couldn't bear to look at him, and yet he couldn't tear his eyes away. “And I was also there when he murdered your family.”

 

When Bucky was young and naive he might have thought that this would be one of those times the body shuts down for self preservation, refusing to hear life changing, heartbreaking words. Now, he was completely unsurprised that he could hear pitch perfect. The hum of the fluorescent lights was shrill in his ears, but the echo of Rumlow words was fiercer. His head was screaming with them.

 

Then it hit him all at once. At first glance Rumlow’s eyes looked like they were glinting with maliciousness, but the shine was actually sincerity. They were earnest, and quite clearly wide open, and Bucky couldn’t believe he’d kept his own shut for so long, not wanting to see what they would show him if he just let them shift into focus. That everything he thought he'd signed up for had been forced upon him, and that the life he now led was based on a lie. And all at the hands of a vampire he'd trusted.

 

If Bucky hadn't had several lifetimes worth of experience at locking away unwanted emotions, he’d be tatters and dust. As it was, he knew how to file it and focus on Steve. He turned back to Rumlow, shielding himself behind galvanized steel.

 

Rumlow held out the hastily drawn map. Lines like spiders webs stretched across the paper. It took Bucky longer than it should have to take it, but his world had shifted on its axis and he wasn't going to apologize for making Rumlow wait.

 

“When you get inside you’ll find the lycans scattered, but don't get complacent — they're never too far from each other to close ranks. If they join together they could do serious damage.” Rumlow stepped in to scratch a circle onto the paper. “She'll have him here.”

 

Bucky watched Rumlow warily, discomforted by the unfamiliar placidity. It didn’t take long to identify the pity behind it. Wincing away, Bucky distracted himself with the map. “Can she do it?” he asked quietly. “Can she make him a hybrid?”

 

“Yes. She intercepted Banner last night. From there your boy is just a vampire bite away from becoming a true monster. Or the ultimate weapon. Whichever way you look at it, he’ll be the ammo that turns this war around.”

 

“Does Pierce know what she plans to do?” Clint asked very slowly like he wasn't sure he really wanted to know the answer.

 

“By now? Yes.” Rumlow set his jaw in a hard line. “For all our sakes, I hope it's too late. A hybrid will be safer in Romanoff’s hands.”

 

Bucky, who’d started preparing to move out as soon as Rumlow confirmed that Pierce was a threat to Steve, looked up angrily. “Safer for you, you mean. I presume Pierce knows all about you hooking up with the lycans.”

 

Rumlow cracked a dark laugh. “Look who’s talking,” he growled.

 

“God, I hope he kills you,” Bucky bit out.

 

“Stop acting like a sulky brat and _think_. Do you really want Pierce controlling your boy now you know what he can do? He’d crack as easy as you did.”

 

Bucky turned his back. If he didn't, he'd go right ahead and grind Rumlow’s face into the filthy tile. “Wanda can you shut him the hell—”

 

One jab to the temple and T’Challa had knocked Rumlow out cold.

 

“—up,” Bucky finished, regarding T’Challa with a quick blink. Bucky had almost forgotten he was there. “Thanks.”

 

T’Challa tilted his head slightly and it had the air of a shrug. “Don't thank me. He deserved that ten times over.”

 

“So you’re in?” Clint asked him.

 

T’Challa was silent for a while and it dragged.

 

After what felt like an hour, but was probably about five seconds, T’Challa slipped a gun into his waistband. “There’s too much arrogance in a world where god favors one side over another,” he said, eyes sliding to Bucky. “Wars like this don't run their course, they cycle back. It started with Romanoff and Carter, and it will end with you. But you're going to need help.”

 

Clint looked at Bucky and back again. “Okay… so, you’re in.”

 

“Let’s go then,” Bucky intervened quickly. If he stopped too long he might have to think about all the things he couldn’t afford to. His chest cinched with the ache of holding it all back as it was.

 

“Er... one question,” Clint started as Bucky folded the map into his pocket and checked his weapons.

 

“If you're planning on asking me something about Pierce, I'll help you lose another bow,” Bucky said, not harsh but low enough that Clint would understand that he couldn't process this right now.

 

Clint waited a beat while he thought of some other question, and it made Bucky want to hug him. After a moment, he narrowed his eyes on a smile and said, “Did you fuck Steve Rogers?”

 

Bucky laughed, startled into finding a tiny smile from someplace very far away. “Last true romantic, you are. But it's just Steve, remember. He's not famous.”

 

 _Yet._  The thing was, if Steve got his way he'd set their whole world alight, and then he’d be famous whether he wanted it or not. Bucky damn well hoped they all survived to see it.

 

He found his smile pretty easy to hold after that. It only faltered when T’Challa’s phone skittered across the table top. All eyes dropped to watch it vibrate impatiently.

 

Bucky saw Pierce’s name flash on the display and couldn’t decide whether he wanted to smash the cell with his fist or run.

 

He didn’t do either. Lifting his eyes to T’Challa he picked up the phone. “You mind?”

 

T’Challa nodded for him to go ahead and Bucky didn’t waste time before sliding to answer.

 

Pierce’s voice when it hurtled down the line fueled Bucky with a rage that heated his body to boiling point. He barked orders for T’Challa that Bucky didn’t even hear, his mind too crowded with fury and crushed by a second crash of feeling, a betrayal that doused him with ice water. The freeze after the fever of hate cracked him straight down the middle like a thermal shock.

 

“Save Barnes for me,” Pierce was saying into his ear, silence stretching a few seconds later when it was past time for T’Challa to have acknowledged.

 

When Bucky answered, his voice was made of steel. “You think I won't come for you?”

 

The shocked silence didn't feel as good as Bucky thought it might, but when Pierce finally responded, saying Bucky's name and aiming for casual, Bucky could hear the waver of uncertainty.

 

When Bucky spoke next, his voice was deep in threat. “I'm already on my way.”

 

He dropped the cell back onto the table with a clatter. If Pierce thought Bucky was on route to the mansion, all the better, but he was heading for the subway.

  
And he was already gone.


	11. XI: War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the last chapter. Thank you for reading!

**XI: War**

 

 _‘There are, I think, occasions when you know that you have arrived at the end of a long journey, when, even though your destination is still concealed from sight, you are somehow aware that when you turn the corner that lies just ahead of you, there it will be.’_ — _Anthony Horowitz, The House of Silk_

 

~

 

The Budapest Metro tunneled out in divergent strands, and as fate and its sick sense of humor would have it, an aerial view of the system looked remarkably like a spider.

 

Underneath the tracks lay a web of pitch black tunnels, stuttering into life under flickering lights. Every sound ricocheted around the inky dark, off the arched walls and straight into Bucky’s sensitive ears. It struck him as ironic that of all the places for the Black Widow to hide her wolves, she’d picked the perfect hunting terrain for bats. And sure enough, there were vampires everywhere. Bucky could sense them swarming from every direction, but he was far from surprised. Pierce wouldn’t have stalled for a single moment before mobilizing every fighter at his disposal to search for Romanoff. For Steve.

 

T’Challa hadn't been surprised either when Bucky had reported the number of scent signatures he’d detected. T’Challa had confirmed receipt of the information but hadn't attempted contact since, and to be honest, that suited Bucky best.

 

Nobody had tried to stop him when he'd wordlessly left the diner with ammo, a comm, and the clear implication that he wouldn't be staying for the tactical planning. Not this time. They’d heard the hate in his voice when he'd spoken to Pierce, cold and catching, and they'd seen the fear for Steve that he wasn't trying to hide. So they all knew that he wouldn't be stopped for strategy. That he wouldn't be stopping period until he got to Steve.

 

Bucky hoped they also knew that he wouldn't have left if he hadn't trusted them all to back him up and stay safe while doing it. They had command leaders in both T’Challa and Sam, and Bucky was just waiting for the word that they'd made their plan, armed themselves and were now holding the perimeter. Until then, it was just Bucky.

 

Bucky and weapons and the cover of Steve’s fingerprints.

 

It seemed a lifetime ago that he had followed Steve down into the station and watched a supposedly dying species stream out of the underground. Now, only a handful of days later, alert to the shuffle of stealthy feet above and below him, and the rough scrape of boots in a parallel tunnel to his left, Bucky had to keep watch for two very different but no less ferocious enemies.

 

Eyes vivid blue, Bucky cleared his head and made his movements smooth and controlled as he moved down the line, sweeping left and right as he passed junction after junction.

 

It wouldn't be hard to get disorientated down here in the hectic maze of interconnecting passages, but Bucky had never been lost anywhere in his life, and even though Rumlow’s map was jumping with anticipation in his back pocket, he’d memorized the route so well that he could have redrawn it with eidetic accuracy.

 

With a clear target in mind, he advanced quickly, navigating the intersections with ease. And in that, Bucky had the only advantage he was going to get. Pierce’s men may have had a head start, but they were running blind, split up and slow as they searched the warren of tunnels. Bucky had been right to wait, if only for Rumlow’s map.

 

“We’re situated,” T’Challa said into his ear.

 

The last word was barely spoken when Bucky heard shots firing almost directly in front of him.

 

He stopped abruptly, sighting down his gun, but a few seconds of non-contact later, he knew that the bullets weren't meant for him. He started forward, following the thunder of gunfire, and then after, when the guns had apparently been spent or scattered, he followed the sound of fists connecting with flesh.

 

And then a human cry.

 

“Contact,” he whispered. “I'm engaging.”

 

Without hesitation, Bucky rushed around the corner at full speed, panic firing up his spine, and found himself in a small chamber.

 

He saw red first. The shock of color flicking around Romanoff’s shoulders as she fought off two death dealers attacking from either side. None of the three had clocked Bucky, and he was about to continue his sweep of the room when he heard it.

 

“Bucky?”

 

It was undoubtedly Steve's voice, and relief poured in, thick as fear but heady and sweet as laughter.

 

He should have thought more about the rough quality woven into the word, the little gasp of pain at the end of his name. There were hints there, and if he hadn't been floored with relief he wouldn't have been so unprepared to turn and find Steve strapped to the wall by the neck and wrists, deathly pale and barely strong enough to keep his eyes open.

 

It would have cut Bucky up even if he’d been braced for it, but he might have been able to conceal it better, and seeing Bucky’s pain only seemed to make Steve's that much worse.

 

“‘S’alright,” Steve sighed out, eyelids sliding closed.

 

Bucky was about to call bullshit when it occurred to him that he couldn't hear a heartbeat, and his blood turned to ice.

 

Relief completely forgotten, he lowered his gun from where the two death dealers were keeping Romanoff busy and bolted for Steve.

 

“Is he fully turned?” Bucky shouted to her over his shoulder, because if the immortal world was good for anything, it was that it offered an explanation for the deafening absence of Steve’s heartbeat other than death. _If he's lycan, he'll be fine._

 

Romanoff ignored him as she sent one death dealer crashing into the floor and the other pulled her into a choke hold.

 

“Is he lycan?!” Bucky demanded.

 

“Bit busy right now,” she bit out, eyes flaring black, twisting out of the hold and sinking her claws into the vampire's stomach.

 

Bucky’s fingers were too busy fumbling for Steve’s pulse to launch a dagger at Romanoff’s head, but he wanted to. Wanted it even more when he realized that the streams of blood spiraling down Steve’s skin were stemming from vicious silver spikes inside the wrist cuffs, biting into his flesh like the locked jaws of a bear trap.

 

“Shit, _Steve_.”

 

Bucky ripped the brackets from the wall, one in each hand, and pulled the spikes out of Steve’s wrists. The fixings were already loose, as though Steve had tried to pull them out of the wall at some point. He probably would have succeeded too, if he hadn't been weakened by a scatter of bullets to the torso. And that was the next problem, because chucking what remained of the neck brace to the floor, Steve fell into Bucky’s hold and from there it was easy to see the trickles of shimmering gray ribboning down his chest.

 

The wounds hadn't been made by lycan bullets, but by liquid silver rounds.

 

“Fuck.” Bucky’s hands pressed against the open bullet holes as if he might be able to push the blood back in and draw the molten silver out. _“Romanoff?!”_

 

“Still busy,” came the even response.

 

Bucky hissed a curse and brought his hands up to cup Steve’s head, willing him to regain consciousness. A tiny, barely visible fog clouded the air by Steve’s lips, petering out then billowing again. It had been a long time since Bucky’s breath was warm enough to create a cloud of water vapor in the air, but that was exactly what it looked like. Steve was exhaling into the stale cold air, again and again, and all Bucky knew was that it had to mean he was alive.

 

Bucky didn't have much of a chance to enjoy the breathy laugh of relief that slipped his lips before a gun was being cocked against his temple.

 

Romanoff stood over him, her back to two dead death dealers, and Bucky was suddenly reminded how strong she was. How smart to have survived this long, how patient and resilient to have hidden in the dank-dark, biding her time.

 

“Do as I say and you stay alive,” she said simply.

 

“Me staying alive isn’t my priority right now.”

 

The responding silence was loud. Bucky could practically hear Romanoff working through the clues. His words must have gone some way to exposing his weakness; his hands, blood sticky and shaking against Steve’s face, probably shed light on the rest of it, but he couldn't help thinking that it didn't really matter now anyway.

 

Behind Bucky, Romanoff tensed and held her gun tighter, looking between him and Steve, calculating. “Think again,” she advised. “Your survival is tied up with his. He's going to need you to save him.”

 

Bucky didn't have time to process her words before Steve quickly faded in and out of consciousness.

 

“Steve, come on.” He tapped the line open on his comm unit. “T’Challa, Steve’s down. _"_

 

“Relax about the heartbeat,” he heard Romanoff’s calm voice say. “He's fully turned. It's the bullets you need to worry about.” She stared down at Bucky. “He won't recover from those injuries. You need to bite him. And quickly.”

 

“Like I'd listen to you,” Bucky growled out, if only to buy himself some time to think. But all he could think about was, “It could kill him.”

 

There had to be another way, he thought as he frantically assessed whether he could dig some of the silver shrapnel out of Steve with a knife blade.

 

“It won't kill him.”

 

“If it’s so safe, why don’t you become a hybrid yourself?” Bucky snapped. “If you want it so bad, you could inject yourself with his blood now and become a carrier.”

 

Romanoff tensed and was silent for an agonising few seconds while Bucky panicked about the terrifying amount of silver zipping its way through Steve’s bloodstream.

 

Eventually, she sighed, and Bucky was expecting a barbed retort, not, “I’m not sure exactly how immortal I want to be. I don’t plan on being around much longer.”

 

The words sunk in slowly, a little sadly, and Bucky chanced a look up at her.

 

She sighed, impatiently now, and ground the barrel of the gun into his temple. “Think about it. Half vampire, half lycan. All of our strengths, none of our weaknesses. Impervious to both silver and sunlight. He's the future.”

 

Bucky looked away from the storm in her eyes.

 

There were so many thoughts vying for attention in his skull, some butted heads and others merged together. They all felt like they were expanding and growing and none of them would let up for a second.

 

“You can save him.”

 

“Stop. Talking,” he grit out.

 

There was a pause when Bucky thought Romanoff might actually be obeying him. Then she scented the air, spine snapping straight. “Get on your comm and tell Rumlow to pull his men out.”

 

“They’re not his men,” replied Bucky. “Rumlow’s not in play anymore. He told me everything. The alliance with you, the Corvinus bloodline, Pierce’s—” Bucky clamped his mouth closed with a scowl and changed direction. “Pierce knows everything too. That’s why he’s here.”

 

“Then we have a problem.”

 

 ** _You_** _have a problem,_ Bucky wanted to insist, but Romanoff would know it for the lie it was. In reality, if Pierce got hold of Steve, he’d seek to control him and that would be everyone's problem.

 

As if tuning in to Bucky’s thoughts, as if it were any of her fucking right, Romanoff’s next words blew that thought to high heaven. “If Pierce finds him, he won't use him, he'll kill him. Lycan or hybrid, at full strength or close to death, he'll kill him.”

 

Bucky’s hands slowed on Steve’s skin, head tipping down to his own chest. She could be right. The Pierce Bucky knew wouldn’t do that, but the Pierce Bucky knew didn’t actually exist.

 

“Look,” Romanoff said, crouching down. “I need him alive too. We both know that to keep him safe from those bullets and from Pierce, he needs you.”

 

The far off sound of gunfire drum rolled in Bucky's ears like the running footsteps of the seconds that flew by and out of his reach. He wondered if this was how people felt when they were forced to make decisions that kept a terminally ill loved-one alive a little longer. No strategy, no long term view. Just one minute to the next. Heart and soul, and desperation.

 

Romanoff shifted impatiently. _“Barnes.”_

 

Bucky turned to meet her eyes, voice hard when he said, “If you want me to help you, you’ll put the fucking gun down.”

 

She studied him closely, then slowly, very slowly, relaxed her gun arm and lowered the weapon to her side.

 

Bucky didn’t wait for the doubts to smother his courage. There wasn’t time to second guess himself or hope that Steve might regain consciousness so that he could make his own choice. He’d just have to hope that Steve wasn't ready to die yet because he was already dipping his head into Steve’s neck, parting his lips to sigh out against heated skin.

 

Bucky certainly wasn't ready for Steve to die. Call it selfish, but it was with that thought that he bit down, sinking his fangs into the pale column of Steve’s neck, deep enough to take.

 

A vampire bite hurts everyone at first, and Steve was no different. Dragged awake, he gasped as Bucky’s teeth hit his skin, piercing the flesh till they tapped a vein. His muscles seized for a fraction of a second while the pain made way for the heady, thrumming wash of something much deeper and darker, a slick liquid heat that sent him slipping back into unconsciousness with a short sigh.

 

It all happened very quickly after that. There was the glorious taste of Steve’s blood on Bucky’s tongue — even better than he’d remembered it — and the feeling of euphoria darting to his toes, then Romanoff was pulling his head back urgently and scowling at him like it hadn't all happened very quickly at all.

 

“Back off,” she hissed. “You're only supposed to bite him so the venom gets in his bloodstream, not drink him dry.”

 

Stricken, Bucky’s eyes widened and darted to the red puncture mark on Steve’s neck, then skittered across his whole body. “How much did I take?”

 

She looked at him so coldly that Bucky wondered if she was seeing someone — or some _thing_ — else. It reminded Bucky of how until recently he would look at any given lycan as though it was one of a thousand equally disgusting, easily interchangeable monsters.

 

A few seconds passed and Romanoff’s gaze thawed very slightly. She shook her head the tiniest amount. “Not too much,” she said. “Don't sweat it.”

 

Bucky swallowed down the reassurance and wondered why her tone sounded a bit like an apology. Maybe she had been superimposing vampire-shaped prejudices over Bucky, but he'd been guilty of worse and she had plenty of cause to hate his kind.

 

He pushed all that aside because Steve was dead-still in his lap and it was killing him to think about anything else.

 

Bucky didn’t know what he’d realistically expected from creating a hybrid, but he’d hoped it would involve Steve slamming back into consciousness in an instant. Not this quiet stasis in which he wasn’t moving a single muscle no matter how many seconds Bucky counted in his head.

 

“It didn’t work.”

 

“Just wait,” Romanoff replied tiredly, a bit like she was his mom, clipping each _t_ to get her point across. There was an undercurrent though, something in the way she held herself so still that it was obvious she was buzzing with anticipation.

 

Bucky side-eyed her. They were a bit similar really.

 

Eyes sliding back to Steve, he asked, “How long does it take?”

 

Romanoff looked unimpressed. “Was there some part of ‘there’s never been a hybrid before’ that you didn’t understand?”

 

Bucky breathed out through his nose, long and hard. “You’ve been putting yourself forward as quite the authority on it.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I am one,” she said fairly. “Don’t move him. We have the time to wait. We’re better protected in this room than it looks. Those two only found us by chance.” She indicated over her shoulder and Bucky knew she was gesturing to the bloody vampire carcasses.

 

The little cavern fell into a reluctant state of calm, and Bucky could only exhale wearily with it. “Did they call it in?”

 

“No.” She turned her hand in another direction, this time pointing out two crushed comm units. “I got to those first.”

 

Bucky nodded. In the back of his mind he knew that it had taken too long for someone of Romanoff’s skill to take down those vampires. “You were playing with them, weren’t you?”

 

“A little,” she smirked before nodding in Steve’s direction. “I wanted to see what he was to you.”

 

Bucky nodded again slowly but didn’t ask what her conclusions were. It was bad enough as it was, this waiting. The nothingness. His nerves felt jarred, dread and hope grating his skin from opposite directions. And then there was remorse, an unfamiliar, stomach-churning feeling that wouldn’t abate. Bucky couldn’t think about how Steve might hate him for doing this to him. How today’s impulses can all too easily become yesterday’s regrets.

 

It was easier to throw it into the mix of horrific things he'd already done. This one act surely couldn't make him any more evil, not when there were so many roads to hell and every one of them already knew Bucky’s name.

 

Bucky inhaled deeply. “Tell your pack that my team aren't to be touched and I'll do the same.”

 

After a few seconds of contemplation, she pulled a cell out of her jacket pocket and gave the order, short and succinct. It was a bit of an anticlimax when he'd thought she'd throw her head back and howl.

 

Having relayed the same message over his comm, Bucky went back to waiting.

 

“Steve didn't deserve any of this. If you can convince him to help you,” he paused to add the caveat, “and I’m not saying that’s gonna be easy,” to which Romanoff raised an eyebrow, “then you'll owe him protection.”

 

Her gaze didn't waver. “Steve said you were decent,” she said begrudgingly.

 

Bucky made a noise of affront, because, _decent…?_ Come on. “He likes to plays things down.” But really, Bucky was just hiding his spike of pride.

 

His eyes went back to their watchful observations of Steve and nothing was said for a while, until,

 

“You never quite saw him coming did you?” Romanoff observed in a strangely soft voice and with a smile that was a little kind around the edges.

 

The question sounded a bit like, _So you love him then?_

 

Bucky blinked but didn't break eye contact. There was a thunderous roar of a train rattling by at high speed above them.

 

“You know my name,” he said a stubborn silence later, suddenly remembering how she'd used his surname earlier. “Have we met?”

 

“Only at the hospital.”

 

Bucky nodded, pleased. He hadn't thought they'd met outside that incident, but it wasn't like his memory hadn't failed him before. “Had to check. It’s hard to tell what's real and what’s not these days.”

 

She inclined her head like she might have understood what he was saying but wasn't prepared to comment yet. Instead she said, “Did you work it out?”

 

Bucky raised his eyebrows and the corner of her mouth curled upwards.

 

“The Corvinus bloodline,” she clarified, flicking her eyes back to Steve. “It started with a man called Alexander Corvinus. A war lord. One with a special genetic trait. It gave him unimaginable immunity, even enabled his body to mutate fatal diseases so that they'd make him stronger. The gift was passed down, a benign quirk of biology, through his human descendents. He was the first true immortal and the founding father of us all.”

 

“All?”

 

“Lycans and vampires — we’re all children of Corvinus. Contrary to Pierce’s propaganda, before the war started, the two species weren’t enemies. They were allies.”

 

She sat down, back to the rock, one leg drawn up in front of her. The shift moved her face out of the shadow. In the sudden assault of light, it was the easiest thing in the world for Bucky to know that every word she said was true. In many ways though, it was anything but easy.

 

“I didn’t start this war,” she said. “Pierce’s intolerance did. He killed Sharon and made me watch, and he’s been hunting down my kind, killing us off one by one, ever since. There’s only one reason he’s so against integration of the species and that's fear.”

 

“Fear of something stronger than him.”

 

“Something stronger,” she echoed slowly, watching Bucky strangely, “but not only that. He only fears strength that he can't control.”

 

Frown lines etched their way onto Bucky’s forehead. He could feel them. The same way he could feel his hands shake. The words sounded like something he'd heard Rumlow say less than an hour ago. _He saw strength in you… but you turned out to have a mind of your own._

 

“Your history hasn't painted me in a particularly good light,” Romanoff was saying, “but I can promise you that my only agenda is to see him dead.”

 

“If he comes here I'll kill him myself,” he told her, and he didn’t think he’d ever meant anything more.

 

The conviction behind the statement he kept to himself, but it didn't appear to matter. Romanoff’s eyes were clearing with a dawning realization, then she said, “Then you must know about the blockers.”

 

“Bit late now though isn't it,” Bucky said bitterly.

 

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. You wouldn’t be the first he’s played. I know what you’re thinking, but don’t. You couldn't have known.” She checked the ammo in her gun and sucked her lips to her teeth. “It takes a lifetime to live a lifetime. Take it from me, because I’ve already lived it.”

 

Bucky felt his chest tighten at the shine in her eyes.

 

“He’ll never know how much it hurt you to lose your family,” she told Bucky. “He'll never get to feel the same kind of pain. I can’t make him suffer like he made me. I can only stop him doing it all over again.”

 

“Steve was right,” he said quietly. “You really loved her.”

 

He could only watch as her face shuttered, the blaze in her eyes simmering to embers as though snuffed out. Bucky recognized it because he'd honed that particular talent himself.

 

She must have experienced unimaginable loss. The least Bucky could do was change the subject.

 

“He’ll pay. A couple of centuries late. But he'll pay.” He took a breath but didn't give himself time to wonder whether it was Romanoff’s pain or fear for Steve that loosened his tongue. “He killed my family and thought he could keep it from me forever. He never even told me my father was still alive. Not that it matters apparently. My father seems quite happy.”

 

“Don't say something you'll regret later,” Romanoff said mildly. “Do you really think your father’s off playing happy families? You didn't even consider he might have been sent to London for a reason, somewhere far away where he could be managed just like you?”

 

Bucky’s hand tightened on Steve’s jean pocket. In the tsunami of the last twenty four hours, he hadn't even thought of that, let alone entertained the idea. The mere possibility of it knocked the air from his lungs. Then another thought rushed in and Bucky heard himself groan in annoyance. Romanoff hadn't been surprised in the least when he’d mentioned his father’s fake death.

 

“Fuck, did literally everyone know but me?”

 

Romanoff offered a tight lipped smile. “Relax. I know it wounds your pride to think that a supposedly stupid pack of lycans might know something you don't.”

 

Bucky looked her straight in the eye. “It doesn't wound my pride. And it doesn't surprise me either.”

 

She blinked. “A good enemy knows her biggest threat better than anyone. And you were mine.”

 

Bucky frowned. There were far worse vampires than him out at night.

 

“You don't believe me, but with Pierce holding your leash, slowly cutting out every part of you that made you question his orders, stripping you of everything you care about until you clung to him with nothing to lose but his respect, you were a greater danger to me than even he is.”

 

The horror of it all pulled at Bucky’s insides. Less than a day ago he might had defended Pierce tooth and nail, resisting the truth with everything he had. He still wasn't prepared to accept Romanoff’s declaration outright, not because he didn't believe it, but because years of training had taught him not to throw away a battle advantage.

 

So he smoothed his features into something harder, owning everything she claimed him to be, and said, “What makes you think things are any different now?”

 

Her eyes flickered a little, but she was steady when she said, “I know you don't make an escape route unless there's something you want to escape from… or someone you want to escape with. And your mind’s been working through exit routes since you got here.”

 

Bucky sighed.

 

“You're an excellent death dealer, Barnes. Our whole world knows it. My pack certainly knows it. But the difference now is that you don't need it. You have someone worth fighting for. None of us knew this would happen, but I'm glad it did and not just because I'll sleep better at night knowing my pack is safe from you.” She tilted her head. “Rumlow was the one to see it first.”

 

Rumlow. Always Rumlow. “What did he get out of all this?”

 

“Peace, position.” Romanoff shrugged. “Self-preservation. He had plenty of motivation to keep up his side of the bargain and that’s all I cared about.”

 

Her eyes were back on Steve a second later, and so were Bucky’s, his hands reaching out to graze over the silver puddles. The vampires would have had orders to take him alive, which meant he’d simply been caught in the crossfire. Again. Today and every day since day one.

 

“Steve’s the only thing that can stop Pierce,” Romanoff said, drawing Bucky back. “The only way to end this war. He'll be a hero.”

 

“He won't care much about that,” Bucky remarked. “Probably won't stop him ribbing me about it for the rest of my immortal life though.”

 

No doubt Bucky was projecting from his own conscience, but he half expected Romanoff to point out that his joke would only be true if Steve still wanted him after this. To Bucky’s disproportionate relief, however, she didn't.

 

She simply laughed. A quiet sound of agreement that Bucky almost didn't catch because in that moment, Steve jerked awake and Bucky found himself staring into eyes eclipsed black, so glossy they were like mirrors.

 

“Steve?” Bucky grinned like he couldn't help himself. “You scared the shit out of me. He pinched Steve’s side because this clichéd sense of timing was nothing if not perfect, then reeled him in and held him close. “And I said _don't_ jump out the window.”

 

He added another pinch for good measure.

 

Romanoff was close, hissing a cautionary, “Careful,” but no matter how otherworldly his eyes, he was still _Steve_.

 

When Bucky pulled away, Steve’s eyes were blue again and he was smiling, albeit weakly. Gunfire sounded, far enough away but getting closer. In the cavern, Bucky unceremoniously pushed Steve’s t-shirt up, staring wide-eyed at the bullet holes that had healed over with no trace of a scar.

 

“I’m fine, Bucky.”

 

Steve’s whisper of his name was soft enough to calm the last of Bucky’s fears and loud enough to clear the chaos inside his head, but then that too was muffled by a wild screech, like the singing scream of a blade on a whetstone, so high pitched he'd think it was feedback through the comm if he weren't hearing it in his other ear as well.

 

Bucky caught Steve’s eyes, lifting his gun so that the barrel hovered in front of his lips like a silencing finger. At the same moment, Romanoff dropped her weight and extended her claws, eyes wild and alert.

 

In the hum of silence, it was immediately clear that the sounds of fighting were drawing near.

 

There’d been the odd howl, the _trip-trip-trrrrrip_ of semi-automatic gunfire that spoke of all the usual trappings of lycan-vampire battle, but it had been contained, kept to the tunnels outside of their perimeter. Now it was closing in, the sharp hiss of whispers coming from every direction and hard to differentiate.

 

A discomforted rumble was vibrating low in Romanoff’s throat and Steve inclined his head as though he understood her perfectly. Bucky looked between them, silently demanding to be brought into the loop. Preferably soon, because he could sense vampires everywhere.

 

It wasn't a given. He and Romanoff were at a sort of impasse. Enemies pushed together by a pinch point in the road. They could work together to a mutual end, or resist and weaken their chances of success. Either way, Bucky needed to know.

 

Romanoff made him wait for it, holding his gaze for long moments while her quick mind worked through the odds. Then with a very short sigh of resignation, she leant forward and used her finger to tilt his gun up to the ceiling. With so many variables at play, there was only a small chance that the attack would come from above, but Bucky’s ears were overloaded with too much stimuli to distinguish one clue from another, and Romanoff looked quite sure, so that was enough for Bucky.

 

Suddenly, there was a ripping sound. And a crack.

 

A split second before the roof fell in, Bucky could make out one whisper above all of the others, and he knew exactly who it was and where the real attack was coming from.

 

He stood, pivoting, gun poised so that it was targeted straight at Pierce’s head as he stormed into the cavern at the same moment the concrete ceiling crashed down and a half dozen vampires swarmed Romanoff.

 

Pierce stared Bucky down, fury making his eyes dark. That he had the nerve to be angry with Bucky was like throwing napalm on Bucky’s already explosive inferno of hate, but seeing Pierce again, now after everything he’d discovered, put his brain into shock.

 

The elder ignored the gun to his head, eyes shifting from Bucky, over Romanoff who was currently outnumbered and outgunned, to the weak beam on the east side of the cavern. Bucky had spotted it earlier, and considering he'd had similar thoughts himself, it was easy to see what was coming next.

 

He had enough time to drag Steve a stumbling step to the side and shout Romanoff's name over the din, then he was watching helplessly as Pierce threw a silver grenade over her head and into the wall.

 

Rock exploded, cascading down, smothering Romanoff in a splintered bank of stone. The floor under Bucky’s feet shuddered and the sound seemed to echo through the tunnels, multiplying as it went, the shock of vibrations threatening to collapse the whole structure.

 

Amidst the dust, silver particles started to trickle out of the cracks in the rubble and Steve instantly doubled over, coughing against the poison. There were so many unknowns, Bucky could only hope Steve’s new hybrid body had had the time it needed to mold the viruses, complete the change so that it could push the silver out of his lungs, or else be immune to it.

 

Pierce turned his back on the wreck where Romanoff had been standing just a few seconds earlier, unapologetic in his crimes against her even now. His expression was triumphant, and apparently unfazed that several of his own kind had gone down with her.

 

Bucky squeezed the gun in his palm, pulling the trigger without a second thought and sent a bullet into Pierce’s skull. It wouldn’t kill him — would only serve to reveal that Bucky’s gun was loaded with silver ammunition and not UV rounds — but Bucky was too whipped up to care.

 

The vampire barely recoiled an inch from the impact, so Bucky bared his teeth and kept firing, making silver punctures in that hateful, soulless head until Pierce growled and wrenched the gun from Bucky’s hand, carelessly tossing it to the floor before pushing Bucky against the wall so hard it shook.

 

Bucky braced himself for a strike but whatever it was Pierce had planned, it was derailed by the sound of a tinny voice through one of the death dealer radios.

 

“ _Requesting back up, north exit shaft.”_

 

The room snapped into silence as the soldiers looked to Pierce for orders.

 

 _“Repeat… requesting back up,”_ the urgent voice came again before lifting to a tone that sounded distinctly relieved as it said, _“Oh hey, Clint. Man, am I glad to see you. The lycans have us_ — _”_

 

The words cut off with a grunt and the sound of a body slumping to the ground.

 

Bucky found a smile spread his face as Clint’s voice took over the comm. _“Do you think they still need back up? Not sure if unconscious vampires need back up. What do you reckon T’Challa?”_

 

Pierce’s eyes were fierce as he glared at Bucky. Not a bit of anger had drained out by the time he turned to order his soldiers to the north exit shaft.

 

Meanwhile, the shimmer over the silvery wisp of Bucky’s memories was lifting.

 

“It was you,” he gasped as soon as they were alone, voice rough and cracking. It was such a small statement, but sometimes the most painful realities could be summed up with the simplest of words. The hollow heartbreak that rasped Bucky’s voice, however, was in no way simple.

 

“Stop this,” Pierce ordered, leaning close so that all Bucky could see was anger and frustration and disappointment. “You'll ruin everything.”

 

It would have been easy to let himself get distracted by the unexpected slip of emotion weaving through Pierce’s words and making him look like he actually gave a damn, but Bucky’s brain was flooded with all the memories he’d lost, each one becoming clearer until his past had the same definition of a crisp rainbow. The sort of rainbows the bluebirds used to sing to back home.

 

Using the rock behind him as leverage, Bucky pushed forward, shoving Pierce back against the opposite wall and making sure to channel every harsh spike of betrayal and rejection into the arm that pushed into his throat.

 

“How could you?” Bucky hissed. “How could you face me every day afterwards, knowing that you'd killed my family? Knowing that I trusted you?”

 

“Easily,” Pierce retorted, every inch the man that always believed he knew best. Except now, Bucky knew he didn't. “Everything I took from you, I gave back. And much more. You can't put a price on immortality.”

 

“Not when the whole thing is a lie,” Bucky snapped. “Why did you do it? My family knew nothing about the immortal world. What did you stand to gain from killing them?”

 

Pierce looked at Bucky unsympathetically. “You think I should live by the same rules as you? Donors and synthetic plasma?” His face contorted with disgust. _“Livestock_? No — I’ve kept this coven alive for a thousand years. I think I’m owed a few indulgences.”

 

Bucky’s grip on his sanity faltered, his understanding of the world tipped then realigned.

 

“You were hunting,” he realized, squinting through an angry tear. His family was gone forever, and all because a monster couldn't slum it with inhibitors and cloned blood like the rest of them.

 

Bucky sank back, a step away from Pierce, and then another. From there, this whole thing looked a hell of a lot like a battlefield and burnt bridges. And Pierce the one with the torch.

 

By the end of the night, Bucky intended to change the landscape. To see Pierce a scatter of dust on the wreckage of his own kingdom.

 

“You aren't exactly paler than pale yourself,” Pierce pointed out.

 

“I know what I’ve done,” Bucky said, low and gravelly, hand closing back around Pierce's neck. “I don't need you to tell me. I wouldn't have done any of it if I'd known.”

 

“You were happy enough,” Pierce retorted, eyes iced over. “I gave you position and privilege. You can't say you weren't fairly rewarded.”

 

And the horror of it was, Pierce seemed to genuinely believe he'd been right in all of this. “I was manipulated,” Bucky corrected. “And my father. You kept that from me too.”

 

Pierce sighed and Bucky wanted to throttle him for the irritation he heard in it. “No good would have come of you knowing.”

 

Bucky laughed. He couldn't help it. And Pierce's face turned from frustration to malice and a sharp sting of dread sparked up Bucky’s spine.

 

He watched as Pierce raised his hand and very slowly, completely effortlessly, prized Bucky’s metal hand from his neck.  

 

A sneer ghosted his lips as he said, “If he saw what you've become, your father wouldn’t even recognize you.”

 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Bucky sunk a fist into Pierce’s stomach.

 

There was no reaction but more poisoned words. “I gave you power and respect. Eternal life. And if I asked you to lead a few missions in return, to be loyal and grateful, then I think you got the better deal, don't you?” His eyes creeped over Bucky’s shoulder to Steve, and resentfully said, “And now I'm having to clear up your mess.”

 

On paper, Bucky would lose this fight hands down. But then Bucky thought about how Pierce had taken from him, ripped out his heart and left him sewn up with ugly metal staples. How Pierce now had a rough hand to Bucky’s chin, pinning his jaw shut to keep his fangs from extending, and how if this were happening a few weeks ago, he wouldn't have even remembered it the next day.

 

Over the years Pierce had taken and taken, and all he’d given was blood diamonds. Bucky had been crippled under the weight of it, crushed under Pierce’s ruling thumb, but he'd crush back before Steve was ripped from him too.

 

The tight clamp of Pierce’s hand around Bucky’s jaw sent shrieks of agony racketing through his skull, and he couldn't hold back his rough yell as Pierce lifted him, jerking his head back harder, and held him a couple of inches off the ground.

 

“Remember your place,” he snarled in Bucky ear.

 

Wincing, Bucky tried to break the hold, only to freeze when Pierce's eyes drew back over his shoulder with that same malicious intent Something had changed, though. And Pierce’s armored expression stuttered when his eyes landed on Steve.

 

The next thing Bucky knew, he’d been thrown to the floor, temple connecting with the edge of a rock so that his vision wavered, narrowing to a single pinprick of light before blacking out completely for a few seconds too long to be safe.

 

When he came to, hardly any time had passed but he was absolutely amazed he was still alive. The reason why became obvious as soon as he looked up.

 

Pierce was looming over him, teeth bared and sword in hand, but Steve was between the two of them and his hand was clamped around the blade, immovable despite the obvious force. Pierce’s body tensed with the sort of effort that an immortal as strong and revered as him wouldn't expect to be matched, but Steve’s hand around the sharpened steel wasn’t even bleeding.

 

Glinting in the light refracting off the metal, Steve’s eyes were blacked out, and though it really wasn't the time, Bucky couldn’t help but notice the tiny specks of unmistakable vampire blue in amongst the black, like hot stars sprinkled across the milky way.

 

Bucky’s breath hitched, so like and unlike the first time they saw each other. His head was still spinning and he wondered if he wasn’t actually alive at all as he watched Steve stretch the fingers of his free hand to flex his claws, and counter Pierce’s hiss with a growl that showed his fangs.

 

Then Steve ripped the sword right out of Pierce’s hand and surged forward, shoving two broad palms against Pierce's chest and sending him crashing through the wall like a detonation of TNT.

 

It made the building around them rock, may even have had half the city quaking. It definitely prompted Clint to check in.

 

 _“Bucky? What’s going on down there. Are you okay?”_ he asked through the comm. The hiss of an arrow and gunfire echoed in the background.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky gasped out hurriedly.

 

He got his legs under him but they threatened to buckle when his head span again. “Steve,” he choked out.

 

Steve, who'd been striding towards the hole Pierce’s body had created, stopped at Bucky’s voice. He’d been ready to jump off the edge, to run Pierce down and end him, but he turned to Bucky with those polished granite eyes and stepped back as though be expected Bucky to ask him to stay in the same way he had at the apartment window.

 

He stood in the whip of dust and waited.

 

Bucky took a breath to say, “Don't kill him without me,” in a voice that was low and vengeful.

 

Steve simply nodded and launched down to the next floor in a blur of speed.

 

 _“We're on route,”_ Clint said in his ear. _“We got ourselves a little lycan help too.”_ The noise on the comm intensified when the thunder of bullets started up again, then Clint tapped out with a, _“Don’t die whatever you do.”_

 

Shaking the last of the concussion from his head, Bucky leant out of the gaping wound in the stone.

 

The fight shaking the walls of the cavern below was one for the ages. Bucky never thought Pierce would ever meet his match, but Steve was strong, tireless, deflecting Pierce’s blows only to dish out two of his own, not as measured as Bucky’s fighting style, but fast and unrestrained.

 

And he was only just coming into his power. The way he overwhelmed Pierce with relentless strikes was just the tip of his potential, but Bucky knew that experience wasn’t to be underestimated. Immortals like Pierce had earned their reputation. Any minute the tide could turn and Pierce would have the upper hand.

 

Bucky spun back quickly, lifting the sword off the ground and jumping through the chasm, the thunder that followed in the wake of a lightning strike, and landed one side of the cavern. On the other, Pierce had found Steve’s flank with a dagger.

 

The blood poured and Steve took a fist to his face. He braced to minimize the impact, but the force with which Pierce shoved him against the rock had the foundations weakening. The elder’s hand ground the side of Steve’s face into the wall’s jagged edges.

 

Before Bucky could storm forward to help, Steve kicked back and down so that his boot connected with shin bone, then twisted to snap his hand up under Pierce’s chin.

 

He almost backhanded the dagger out of Pierce’s grip too, but Pierce had anticipated the move and had the blade pressed to Steve’s throat in a split second.

 

“You’re an unwanted blight of nature,” Pierce was saying in Steve’s ear, but Steve had clocked Bucky, and knew that at the very least, he was wanted. He growled against the pressure of the blade. “Everything I've done, I've done for the survival of my kind. But you… a _mutt_ , you stand for nothing, hold allegiance to no-one. You disgust me.”

 

Bucky met Steve’s eyes, widened his stance and brought the sword in front of his body.

 

On the other side of the cavern, Pierce pulled the dagger against Steve’s throat. “You don’t belong anywhere so you’ll exist nowhere.”

 

In the span of the next second, Steve had shoved Pierce back, striking him left then right, claws ripping at his torso to unbalance him, and kicked him back into Bucky’s sword.

 

Something settled in Bucky when the sword rammed through Pierce’s chest and he fell to his knees. The dull thud of the impact calmed his ears, the air against his skin felt slick, like it was easing the way as he pulled the weapon back and spun it in an arc. The momentum took the blade slicing through Pierce’s neck, and that felt right to Bucky too.

 

That's all it took in the end. The blink of an eye.

 

Like that blink when Bucky first saw Steve.

 

~

 

Two centuries, six years and fourteen days ago, a vampire was made where a carefree young man used to smile.

 

It was a harrowing thought really, but at the dawn of a new day with Steve by his side, it didn't seem to matter to Bucky as much as you might think.

 

In the immediate aftermath of Pierce’s death, there wasn't time to process the significance in the way the survivors congregated in the cavern, standing side by side, irrespective of species.

 

Their audience stood in a fury of whispers, taking in the beautiful mix of Steve’s blue-space eyes, the vampire fangs that showed just past his top lip, the claws that he retracted slowly when he realized that the newcomers weren't posing a threat, and the vampire elder slain at Bucky’s feet.

 

But the stars of the show were the two origin marks on Steve’s skin. Suddenly, in the place of a far-off dream about a super immortal that could be both lycan and vampire but stronger than both, there stood Steve with an indecipherable look on his face as he took in the awed gazes that appraised him.

 

The cavern didn’t stay still for long though. Finding himself the focus of a very captive audience, Steve used the opportunity to organise clear up. There were soldiers on both sides to find and rescue from the wreckage, a medic to call down from the mansion, and in too many cases, bodies to identify. It was too early to tell as they pulled Romanoff out of the rubble, if she would recover from her injuries.

 

Bucky had been a death dealer for so long, it was with an odd sense of disconnect that he felt the need to grieve the dead. Reality hit him then. In the space of a few days, he'd tumbled out of one life and landed in another. This one seemed to fit him better than the previous one ever had.

 

When the cavern was clear, and the air seemed stiller, Bucky felt a pulling sensation and instinctively looked for Steve.

 

He was calm, competently assessing what needed to be done next. It might have been the concentration or the residual adrenalin from the fight, but his eyes were still painted lycan black, shining with those ultra-blue sparks born from Bucky’s eyes.

 

“Drop the game face,” he called over to Steve, as lightly as he could given the circumstances. “We need to go.”

 

Steve walked over to him, the last of the black draining away. His hand was warm on Bucky’s upper arm, his fingers squeezing lightly as he asked, “You okay?”

 

“No, not really,” Bucky replied honestly. He looked away from Pierce’s broken body, which they’d already decided could rot there for all anyone cared. “You okay?”

 

Steve smiled wryly but it was obvious that he too was comforted by the conversational rhythm of back and forth. Echoes and reflections and solid ground.

 

“No,” he answered. “But then things aren’t okay, so I guess that’s alright too.”

 

Bucky nodded slowly and let his spine melt like butter when Steve’s fingers trailed the back of his neck.

 

“I don't know how to make sense of who I was and who I am now. I've got claws and fangs.”

 

“And badass eyes,” Bucky supplied.

 

“Really?” Steve blinked, then a second later smiled and shrugged. “I don't think any of that changes who I am, but right now...”

 

Bucky’s chest ached to see Steve hurt. This man who looked and sounded indestructible, but who never honestly claimed he was, was actually as fragile as the rest of them. Bucky had known for as long as it had taken him to work Steve out that he may be the only person that really saw it.

 

“It changes nothing,” Bucky reassured him, showing with a touch and with his eyes that he meant it. “I know because I feel the same about you now as I did yesterday.”

 

It wasn't the love confession he'd imagined when he'd started speaking, but it was real. And Bucky’s eyes meant love even if he didn't say it.

 

“We’ll work it out,” he tagged on quietly. “I don’t really know who I am either.”

 

Steve regarded him for a full ten seconds with that look of undivided attention he so often used around Bucky, then said, “I think you’ve known exactly who you are all along.”

 

Bucky smiled a little, genuinely surprised to realize that Steve might just be right.

 

Then Steve ruined it all by saying, “There is one good thing out of all this... you don't have to worry about killing me anymore.”

 

Bucky pursed his lips on the smile that threatened to unravel. “That’s a huge weight off my mind.”

 

“Thought so,” Steve smirked. “And there’s another one... apparently I'm a hero.”

 

There was something just a touch off about the way Steve said it, like he didn't much care about being a hero but refused to pass up an opportunity to make his devastating sass face or to bait Bucky into a smile. None of this surprised Bucky.

 

“Jury's still out on that, pal,” he retorted, glancing at Steve out of the corner of his eye and smirking. “I could still take you.”

 

Steve grinned, “Oh yeah?”

 

Clint turned up before Steve could start a wrestling match.

 

“We’ve cleared all the passages to the south,” he reported. “Are you done here?”

 

“Hi, by the way,” Wanda said as she approached, shooting Clint a world-weary look. “How are you? Do you want a hug? Take your pick because all of these would have worked better than ‘are you done?’ We really need to get better at this emotional care bit.”

 

“We’ll go to the pub later,” Clint offered in solution.

 

Wanda rolled her eyes fondly and smiled over at Steve. “If it isn't our hero of the hour.”

 

Bucky’s groan mingled with Steve’s low laugh.

 

“If you were listening closely,” Bucky said to Steve, “there was an expiration time in that statement. An hour. That's all you get.”

 

It was an absolute pleasure to witness Steve fail at not finding him funny.

 

Opposite them, Wanda turned to Clint. “Did you tell them about the intel?”

 

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “What intel?”

 

“The tip off about the lycans. The night they followed Steve into the subway.”

 

“It was Maria that told me,” Bucky said. “Why? What of it?”

 

“The tip was Maria,” Wanda confirmed, “but the source was Fury.”

 

Bucky would never admit to it, but his mouth gaped a little. “How the fuck is he conspiring from Bran Castle? When I left that place it was more secure than a supermax prison.”

 

“It’s been under Rumlow’s control for years now,” Wanda said. “Who knows what security he let slip for favors.”

 

Bucky took a moment to look around and let the thought trundle through his head a bit. When he looked back, Clint was holding a plane ticket to Bucharest, Romania.

 

“Would you believe me if I said I contacted Fury and told him you'd be in touch?

 

“No Clint,” Bucky frowned. “I wouldn't believe you, because I specifically told you I wouldn't ever meet with him. I was really clear on that.” He took the ticket all the same. Then sighed. “Fury, huh?”

 

“He’s only been waiting by the phone a hundred years,” Clint said dryly, returning the smile that eventually crept its way out of hiding to curl Bucky’s lips.

 

“Well, he’ll have to wait a little longer. We need to deal with everything here first. Reclaim the mansion, form a new peace treaty. We have elders who are not going to be happy with us.”

 

“We can handle that,” T’Challa said, walking up to stand by Steve. “In light of everything we've learned the last few days, it’s likely that Pierce had you exile Fury under false allegations. He obviously knew too much and talked too much.” He looked at Bucky steadily. “You never answered his messages. Why?”

 

Bucky assessed him quickly, but there was no hint of antagonism on his face, just a fierce interest as though the answer was important to his point.

 

“Pierce made me promise I wouldn’t.”

 

And yeah, of course he had. Fury would have made it his business to know everything he shouldn't, and Pierce wouldn't risk anyone finding out what he knew.

 

Bucky would feel guilty about not responding to any of Fury’s requests, but he wasn’t actually sure there was space for any more guilt.

 

T’Challa nodded. “We need to know what he knows. The envoys have already seized control of the mansion. They’ve probably reached Carter too and none of them are going to like what we have to say. We’re going to need Fury, and you’re the only one he’ll speak to.”

 

“I don't even have a passport.”

 

“I’m working on that,” Clint supplied.

 

Bucky smirked. “By ‘I’ do you mean Maria?”

 

“Lorraine, actually. She's a lot happier now Pierce isn't around to grope her ass every five minutes. I may have given her muffins.”

 

“Wait,” Steve interjected in a completely different voice so that it was immediately obvious he wasn't talking about baking or bribery. He looked directly at Bucky. “You can't go alone.”

 

“Thought you'd say that.” Clint twisted his hand, showing the second ticket tucked behind the first. He lacked the bullshit to fluff it up into a party trick, but Bucky was still surprised.

 

“No,” he said, firmly. “This is a monumentally bad idea. Steve, you have to hide until we can smooth things over. As it is, there’ll be vampires and lycans ready to kill you on sight. You need to keep your head down.”

 

“Yeah, I'll keep my head down,” Steve agreed as he plucked the ticket from Clint’s hand, “in Romania.”

 

“Steve,” Bucky started, a bit too low to pass off as casual. “You don't have to do this. Think about it.”

 

“Think of the parties,” Clint chipped in, sending Bucky the same highly amused glance he'd worn when he'd said the words the first time around. “Bet Fury enjoys a rave.”

 

“Well that settles it,” Steve said, all dry humor and warm eyes as he looked back at Bucky.

 

Bucky huffed in frustration. “I'm being serious.”

 

“So am I,” he asserted and Bucky found himself inexplicably transfixed by the sincerity that shone on his face. “You’d do the same for me.”

 

Bucky’s silence was an acceptance that spoke volumes.

 

“So... Romania,” Steve said.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky smiled, the old mischievous one that still fit like a glove. “Do you even know how to pronounce the airport?”

 

He smirked when Steve gave him a dirty look.

 

“At least I’ll board the plane. You’re not gonna get through the metal detector with that arm,” Steve retorted, falling into step on their way to help Peter and Riley with the last of the fallen soldiers.

 

Steve narrowly avoided a jab to the ribs, and Bucky found himself enjoying the laugh that tripped into the cold air and somersaulted around them.

 

“You never told me how you got it,” Steve said, fingers tripping over the metal plates and down to lock their fingers together.

 

“That's a whole story of its own,” Bucky said. “And one I've literally only just remembered, so you might have to give me a few days to work through it first.”

 

“We've got all the time you need.”

 

And they did. It wasn't everything, but it was something. And if they weren't yet repaired, they were at the very least, healing.

 

“We umm, we might have to stop by London on the way home.”

 

Steve nodded over the bit Bucky didn't want to expand on and said, “By home I really hope you're not talking about that shitty safe house.”

 

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Well I don't mean the damn mansion. And we couldn't go back to either of them even if we wanted to.”

 

On the edge of Bucky’s vision, he saw Steve nod in agreement before faltering mid-step. “We'll have to go back to pick up Remy though.”

 

Bucky grinned, and the determined look on Steve’s face was so unbelievably gorgeous that he didn't have the heart to tease him.

 

In that moment, it occurred to Bucky that this was the third time he'd been offered a second chance. So really, he thought as he leaned into Steve’s heat and offered up a quick kiss, there was a fair chance that this one would be better.

 

Maybe, just maybe, this life would be everything immortality had promised to be. Or at the very least, a few degrees warmer.

 

Bucky didn't need a long term memory to know that so far, it felt nothing like falling.

 

**Notes**

Thank you for reading! Please kudos or comment if you enjoyed the story.

 

You can find me on [tumblr](https://little-lottie.tumblr.com) (little_lottie) if you want to chat about this fic, these boys, or anything at all really!


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